






I ^ 









S’ / .• '■••.^•':7‘ ", • ^‘ir^ 









■'■5 . 





I 



' I 

•i 


I 


'I 


* 

'w 


4 


I 


3 



C 


I 




4 


4 


4 

r ' 


,» 


! »' 

* 




i 



I > 



'? ' 

4 - 



« 




i 




t 

« 



« 






U A »' k 





f. 

y 


COPTRIGHT, 1898 , 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 


F 


TO THE 

iHetnors of our fat[)cx, 
GENERAL MARGUERITTE, 

AND 

IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE ARMY 

AND OF 

THE TOWN OF METZ. 


Paris, January, 1898. 


P. AND V. M. 






' -.r 


• < • 


i . 


. r' •< 






• • _ I 




• V 



\ 


■■ * 

\ •**■*'' 

> -r ^ 

* •• • 

l‘ ■ - A. 

- ^ J • ■“*% * r* Vi ' • 

•r^-» 


4 I 










j '^*-1/ ! 

■■■^^ 



. . '*^ 



‘r 




> I 



* - ^ 


H 


' 






INTRODUCTION. 


On August 30, 1870, General Margueritte, who, since the 
opening of the Franco-German War, had shown almost unex- 
ampled activity and bravery, proceeded to the Monzon 
plateau, rejoining the routed army of Marshal de MacMahon. 
A juncture with Bazaine being out of the question, the 
army proceeded towards Sedan. After camping at Sally, 
and holding a consultation with General Ducrot, Margue- 
ritte reached Illy, near the Illy qalvary, sleeping his troubled 
sleep on the plateau there, rolled in the same mantle as his 
comrade in arms. General de Galliffet. When day broke 
Marshal de MacMahon opened the battle. 

On the night of August 31st, the Margueritte division 
camped near the small village of Vaux, about three miles 
north of Sedan. The soldiers who slept that night must 
have been sound sleepers, for there was a ceaseless crackle 
of rifles in the darkness, a warning that at dawn the battle 
would recommence with renewed vigour. Indeed, hardly 
had the light appeared than the fusillade became brisker, 
and the booming of cannon could be heard on the opposite 
side of the Meuse, on the left bank. 

Projectiles were commencing to deal destruction among 
Margueritte’s troops. Drawing his men up in echelons, the 
General was preparing to charge in the direction of Givonne, 
when suddenly a whole Prussian army corps appeared from 
the woods between him and the Belgian frontier, and, after 
establishing its batteries, opened up a hot fire. General 
Margueritte charged at the head of the 1st and 2nd regi- 
ments of Chasseurs d’Afrique. The fight, which had opened 
at ten o’clock, dragged on for hours. About two o’clock in 
the afternoon Margueritte was seen to fall suddenly from his 
horse, with his face to the ground. M. Keverony, his orderly 


VI 


THE DISASTER. 


officer, at once dismounted, and, taking the general in his 
arms, saw that his face was covered with blood, that he was 
unable to speak, but that he had not lost consciousness. 
Margueritte remounted his horse, and, supported on each 
side by Reverony and another officer, proceeded under the 
enemy’s fire towards his soldiers. 

“ I shall never forget the spectacle of which I was then a 
witness,” wrote M. Reverony, in a letter to Mme. Margue- 
ritte, which is one of the most stirring military narratives 
ever penned. ^‘As soon as they had recognised the General 
consternation was depicted on every face, each feeling what 
he had lost in losing his well-beloved chief. Every head was 
bent, swords were respectfully lowered, and one cry issued 
from every throat : ‘ Long live the General ! Let us avenge 
him! . . .’ The General thanked them with a movement 
of his head, and still had sufficient strength to point out the 
direction of the enemy, striving to cry ‘Forward!’ The 
regiments made a fresh and murderous charge, and those 
words, ‘ Long live the General ! Let us avenge him ! ’ were 
the last which many of those intrepid officers and brave 
soldiers spoke.” A few days afterwards, namely, on 
September 6th, General Margueritte died at the house of 
the Duke of Ossuna, at Beauraing, in Belgium. The bullet 
which killed him entered the left cheek and came out at the 
right, doing serious injury to the palate and the tongue. 

I do not propose to give a detailed account of the career 
of this remarkable soldier, the hero who was the father of 
Paul and Victor Margueritte, whose story of the war of 
1870-’7l is here presented to English readers in a translation. 
Such an account would need a bulky volume, and the few 
pages at my disposal will only permit of touching lightly on 
the subject of his eventful life. 

Auguste Margueritte was the son of Antoine Margueritte, 
a quartermaster of gendarmes, and he was born on January 
17, 1823, at Manheulle, in the department of the Meuse, in 
the country .of Joan of Arc, of Franqois de Guise, and of 
Chevert. His early years were passed in Algeria, in the 
midst of the wildest adventures. Before he had reached 
the age of twenty he had served with distinction in a squad- 
ron of Moorish gendarmes, notably during the Holy War 
declared by Abd-al-Kader. When his regiment was dis- 
banded in 1842, D’Allonville, his chief, offered to pay all his 


INTRODUCTION. 


Vll 


expenses if he would come to Paris to study for Saint-Cyr. 
He preferred, however, to enlist as a private in the 4th regi- 
ment of Chasseurs d’Afrique, at Toulon, his bravery and his 
genius for organization soon winning for him rank after 
rank and post after post in Algeria. When he returned to 
France from that country in 1861, Margueritte held the 
rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, and at the age of forty-seven he 
was made a General, at the time the youngest officer of that 
rank in the French army. 

Though General Margueritte was a soldier by profession, 
he did not love war for itself, rather did he regard it as a 
necessary evil. As a proof of this may be quoted an extract 
from one of his letters, written on the eve of an African or 
Mexican expedition. “ Allons,” he writes, “ il faut encore 
mettre ces gens-la a la raison et les rosser un peu. Quel 
ennui ! ” Margueritte’s true role was that of an adminis- 
trator. His knowledge of the language, manners, topog- 
raphy, and religion of Algeria made him respected among 
the inhabitants, and successful in work in the carrying out of 
which others would have failed. And, as has been truly said, 
“ his name, his works, his prowess are celebrated there — 
everybody knows of them. They are handed down from 
father to son ; in the interior of the country, where the black 
coats of bureaucrats do not appear, he is becoming, is al- 
ready, a heroic and legendary figure.” 

In addition to possessing remarkable qualities as soldier 
and administrator. General Margueritte had the faculty of 
literary expression in a marked degree — a faculty which his 
sons, Paul and Victor, have inherited. His early reading 
of the Bible and Plutarch undoubtedly served to form that 
simple, pure, and clear style which is so noticeable in his 
“ Chasses de I’Algerie ” ; the directness of those letters, 
“written under tents at random on days when out hunting, 
or upon the eve of battles, upon improvised tables ” — letters 
which his sons have done well to collect. 

Paul Margueritte, who was born at Laghouat, in Algeria, 
in 1860, was a pupil at the Prytanee Militaire de la Fleche, 
and has devoted himself to literature from his youth. He 
made his debut by a short history of General Margueritte, 
entitled “ Mon Pere,” and from 1883 to 1896 he has published 
twenty-three volumes, the most noteworthy of which are 
“ Jours d’Epreuve,” “ La Force des Choses,” “ Ma Grande,” 


vni 


THE DISASTER. 


and “La Tburmente”; several volumes of short stories, 
among which may be mentioned “ Le Cuirassier blanc ” ; and 
a volume of delicate impressions, “ Le J ardin du Passe.” 

Victor Margueritte was born in 1866 at Blidah, in Al- 
geria. His first published work was a small but charming 
volume of verse, “ La Chanson de la Mer,” which appeared in 
1889. He enlisted in the Spahis in 1886, entered the cavalry 
school at Saumur in 1891, and after four years, during which 
time he served as an ofiicer in the Dragoons in Paris and at 
Versailles, he gave in his resignation in order to devote his 
whole time and thought to literature. 

The collaboration of the two brothers dates nearly three 
years back, when they started work upon “ Le Desastre,” the 
most important, up to the present, of their joint productions. 
Several of their short stories, including “ La Parietaire,” are 
already well known to readers of Cosmopolis. I believe that 
their first published work appeared in September, 1896. 

In the production of such a work as “ The Disaster,” 
which is the daily narrative of the first part of the Franco- 
Prussian War, the two authors have been in an exceptionally 
favorable position. Their sympathy with the subject of 
war, and the intimate knowledge of the army which the 
younger brother possesses, has stood them in good stead. 
Upon the publication of such a work as “ The Disaster,” it 
is not unnatural that some comparison should be made with 
M. Emile Zola’s work, “ La Debacle,” though in many ways 
the two works differ to a considerable extent. It may be as 
well to point out in what respect. M. Zola has depicted the 
disorganization of the Chalons army and the Sedan catas- 
trophe. The Marguerittes narrate the heroic struggle of the 
army of the Rhine at Borny, Rezonville, Saint-Privat, and 
Noisseville; the long agony of the finest troops in the 
French army, day after day duped until the fatal hour of the 
capitulation of Metz by Bazaine. In “ La Debacle ” we 
have a vivid picture of war from the common soldier’s point 
of view; in “ The Disaster ” we have a description of war as 
seen by the officers. Pierre du Breuil, the hero of the story, 
is an officer of the general staff, and an orderly officer of the 
Minister of War. He is, consequently, at the very centre of 
the military movement. At the time of the declaration of 
war against Germany, he has, like nearly everybody else, 
illusions which by degrees are destroyed as the war continues 


INTRODUCTION. 


IX 


and the country is invaded. The Marguerittes have de- 
scribed the struggle between the conscience and the sense of 
duty of this officer, between discipline and revolt; the bril- 
liant soiree at the palace of Saint-Cloud, the departure of 
the imperial train for Metz, Paris at the opening of the war, 
the disorganization of the army during the first few days of 
the campaign, the battlefields, the ambulances, the feverish 
excitement of Metz, the stagnation of the army in the rain 
and the mud, the horses disappearing by hundreds to pro- 
vide food for the soldiers, the inhabitants of the Lorrain 
town encircled by Prussian troops, and, in conclusion, the 
heart-rending scenes of the capitulation. 

It will be found that considerable space is devoted to the 
suspicious conduct of that remarkable man. Marshal Ba- 
zaine. “ The Disaster ” is, indeed, in many respects a charac- 
ter study of the man whose ambition led to his trial for 
treason, his sentence to death, and, after his escape from 
Fort Sainte-Marguerite on August 10, 1874, his death in 
Spain in obscurity. 

Unlike M. Zola’s novel, “ The Disaster ” contains its 
lesson; it is calculated, despite its sadness, to sustain, not to 
cast down. The author of “ La Debacle ” gives a picture of 
war upon a majestic scale after the fashion of a Tolstoi; 
Paul and Victor Margueritte belong to a younger school of 
writers, their descriptions of battle scenes being more epi- 
sodic than the novelists already mentioned, so that at times 
the reader is almost reminded of the work of Stephen Crane 
in the “ Red Badge of Courage.” 

But the Marguerittes have not given us a book wholly 
devoted to military matters. The affection of Du Breuil’s 
friend Lacoste for his dog Titan and his horses Musette and 
Conquerant; the hero’s love for Anine, besides many other 
incidents and characters too numerous to mention, serve to 
add brightness to a picture which might otherwise have been 
gloomy and monotonous. Sometimes we come across a de- 
scription almost Stevensonian in its charm, as, for instance, 
that which puts before the reader the little cavalry soldier 
Jubault playing on his flute in a stable at dead of night the 
air of Marlbrough s’en va t’en guerre,” the melody striking 
upon Du Breuil’s ears above the silence of the Ban Saint- 
Martin “ like an ironical and sad streamlet of water.” 

Paris, 1898. FREDERIC LeES. 



THE DISASTER. 


PART L 


CHAPTER I. 

Coffee and liqueurs had just been served by the butlers 
and servants. The majestic footmen, in green liveries, closed 
the dining-room doors. In the four large rooms from the 
Salon des Vernet, where their Majesties were, to the Salon 
Rouge, the guests were scattered in little groups. 

Through the windows opening on to the Emperor’s gar- 
den came the gentle night breeze mingled with the scent of 
flower-beds. The flames of the candles in the chandeliers and 
branched candlesticks were steady, unwavering, and were 
reflected to infinity in the tall mirrors. The floors glistened. 
Tinder the gilded ceiling, upon which were painted mytho- 
logical triumphs, between the walls sparkling with light, was 
a movement of decorated uniforms — blue, red, and green; 
black coats covered with decorations; light dresses and bare 
shoulders. 

Pierre du Breuil was dazed with this state of agitation, 
and fete. He smiled politely at the last words of Mme. de 
Vernelay, and bowed without offering a reply. At that mo- 
ment a stout man came up — a man with a ruddy complexion, 
white whiskers, and honeyed manner, which was belied, 
however, by his hawk-like eyes. He was one of the honorary 
Chamberlains of the Emperor. Formerly the creature of 
Charles X., and the zealous adherent of Louis Philippe, he 
had succeeded as the crowning-point in his career in becom- 
ing attached, in partibus, to the civil household since its 
organization. He was disconsolate at now being useless and 
forgotten, a man eaten up with regret and the necessity of 
being subordinate. With bitter amiability he asked the 

1 


2 


THE DISASTER. 


Major, who was an orderly officer of the Minister of War, 
for news of his uncle, the Marquis de Champreux, the Cham- 
berlain on duty. 

“ You are on your way to him. He is with their Majes- 
ties.” 

“ And where are they ? ” asked the stout man precipitately. 

“ In the Salon des Vernet.” 

He had already gone some distance. Du Breuil smiled. 

The Salon Rouge was filling. After the grave events of 
the day, it was easy to see that all who had the entry to Court 
would be at Saint-Cloud this evening. One by one, in fact, 
showed their faces — those faces upon which could be read 
dissimulation, anguish, curiosity, or joy. 

The library doors being open, Du Breuil crossed the Salon 
de la Verite. On the right, and to the left, the Salon de 
Mercure and the Salon de Venus were peopled by new-comers. 
There was a constant stream of official personages, members 
of the diplomatic corps, an ever-increasing crowd of embroid- 
ered coats and fresh toilettes from the vestibule of the large 
apartments. 

“ Is that you, Du Breuil ? What are you doing here ? ” 

The Major recognised the shrill voice of General Jaillant, 
one of the directors at the Ministry of War. 

“Nothing, General. I have been dining at the palace.” 

“ My congratulations.” 

There was a suspicion (5f patronizing good-will in the 
General’s tone of secret envy. 

“Well, what fresh in your department? If the Due de 
Grammont’s speech results in what it forebodes, we shall have 
some work to do. Everything isn’t very roseate for us. The 
very idea of saying there are people who envy us.” 

“ They are in the wrong. General. The only duty of com- 
rades is to fight. . . .” 

“ Bah ! When one has gone through the Italian cam- 
paign like you and I, nothing astonishes one. By-the-by, as 
you are one of the intimates at Court, can you tell me at 
what hour their Majesties will cross the saloons? Ah, 
Chenot ! how are you, my old friend ? ” 

“Not so bad. Have you heard the news? Good-evening, 
Du Breuil.” 

The Major saluted. The two Generals walked away arm- 
in-arm, talking in a low tone. 


THE DISASTER. 


3 


Du Breuil looked at Chenot’s arched back and the red 
swollen neck which pressed against his gold-embroidered 
collar. The General walked with an unequal and halting 
step, the stride which he took with his right leg being longer 
than that which he took with his left. This action, stamping 
him as worse than a courtesan, was in imitation of the Em- 
peror. Chenot — the stout, insensible Chenot, but a man pos- 
sessed of great acuteness under his outward appearance of a 
Danube peasant — seemed to be on the best of terms at the 
present time with Jaillant. In reality he execrated him. 

A new arrival had caused some sensation. The publicist 
Favergues, a tall pallid man of an ugliness at once spirituelle 
and malicious, who had been at the palace every day of late, 
jolted up against a fat, bandy-legged senator. 

“Well?” inquired the latter. 

“ The people in the streets are restless. Paris is in a state 
of fever. The Minister’s declaration has resounded like a 
blow upon a gong. ‘ Vive la Guerre! ’ is being cried on the 
boulevard.” 

“ Yes,” said a deputy of the Opposition, subventioned by 
the Government, but who nevertheless betrayed both the 
Right and the Left ; “ but stocks have gone down more than 
a franc.” 

Du Breuil listened with anxiety. He had left the Minis- 
try of War without knowing a thing. Arriving at the palace 
late, at the very hour of the invitation to dinner which had 
been transmitted to him by his uncle, the Chamberlain, he 
had hardly had time to salute the Marquis de Champreux, 
much less to inform himself of events. However, like a true 
soldier, he was a fatalist, and allowed himself to drift. War 
was in the air. Very well, let the storm break! 

He approached a group where he recognised the grimacing 
smile of Mme. de Vernelay, a lady of the palace, who was 
afflicted with an envy which was kindled by everything, no 
matter how insignificant. To be envious was to her as natu- 
ral as the act of breathing to others. Mme. de Vernelay 
glanced at Du Breuil bitterly. The stout banker, Manhers, 
rolling his white eyes, was holding forth in a low voice : 

“ This teclaration is a crave imprutence. Enrobe vill be 
tismayed. I haf heard from the Ampassador of a creat power 
that it would haf been breverable to take diplomatic steps. 
Nothing is cained by hurrying madders.” 


4 


THE DISASTER. 


The Comtesse de Limal interrupted him with an imperti- 
nent imitation of his nasal pronunciation. She was a lady of 
high colour, and her manners were distinctly masculine. Her 
beautiful bare shoulders were like those church steps which 
have become polished by the lips of the faithful. She was a 
charitable woman; long prayers on the part of those who 
desired were never necessary. 

“ Hurrying ? What do you mean ? Oh, war disquiets 
you, Baron? These Germans deserve a thrashing. And we 
shall give it them, shall we not, Admiral ? ” 

M. La Veronnech, a little old man with a smooth Breton 
face, and eyes the colour of sandstone, very sad because of the 
death one after another of his wife and daughter, replied 
without a sign of enthusiasm : 

“ Certainly, madame.” 

“ The Duke spoke admirably ! ” exclaimed Comte Duclos, 
one of the Empress’s friends, in a decided tone. “ Besides, 
he only acted in conformity with the programme which was 
decided upon this very morning by the Cabinet.” 

There was a tone of arrogance in everything Comte Du- 
clos said, an arrogance which had something to do with the 
provocative expression in his face, the hard look in his eyes, 
and his waxed moustache, or perhaps with the annoyance 
which his wife’s conduct caused him. He adored this superb 
creature with large, soft eyes, and, it was said, beat her. She 
deceived him with imperturbable serenity. 

“ All the same,” repeated Manhers, “ the pisness has been 
started too soon.” 

Nobody agreed with him. The Comtesse de Limal 
shrugged her shoulders and, as General Jaillant was passing, 
took his arm. As he leaned towards the lady, the General — 
who in his uniform had a dry and puny appearance — fingered 
his moustache. According to scandalmongers, he had once 
ardently loved her. Du Breuil then saw advancing towards 
him the most redoubtable, the most captious of chatterers, 
M. Jousset-Gournal, a counsellor at the imperial Court, but 
he could not avoid meeting him — the man stuck like glue. 

“Well, my boy,” said M. Jousset-Gournal, whose family 
relation to Du Breuil allowed of this familiarity of speech, 
“ what am I to say to you ? ” 

He lingered with delight upon his words; his gray eyes 
sparkled; one would have thought that he was experiencing 


THE DISASTER. 


5 


a similar pleasure to that taken by an executioner who is 
about to torture his victim. 

“It was inevitable! Unless one was blind, it was im- 
possible to overlook the fact. The equilibrium of Europe 
has been destroyed since Sadowa, and sooner or later it was 
bound to re-establish itself. The occasion is a good one. 
Southern Germany, where Prussia is by no means hon- 
oured, will eagerly seize this opportunity to obtain her inde- 
pendence. What is more, the Northern Confederation will 
declare itself on our side. Hanover will take up arms. 
Saxony, it is very evident, will support Austria, which is 
with us.” 

Du Breuil cast a look of despair to right and left, but 
nobody came to his aid. M. Jousset-Gournal seized him by 
one of the olive-shaped buttons of his uniform. 

“ F ollow me closely,” he said, pulling the button as 
though Du BreuiFs whole attention was concentrated upon 
it. “ You must understand I am not bothering myself with 
what will happen should war be declared; I have nothing 
to do with that side of the question. That is the business 
of you specialists. What really interests me is to see my 
previsions on the point of being realized. To-day is July 
6. Well, four years ago to the very day, when I heard of the 
success of Prussian arms in the provinces, I said to myself : 
‘ There is our future enemy.’ And, as a matter of fact, on 
the following day the question of the Grand Duchy of Lux- 
emburg nearly showed I was right.” 

The Marquise d’Avilar, a dowager with bold features 
and the piercing eyes of an intriguer, passed them. Du 
Breuil saluted her. M. Jousset-Gournal stuck to him like a 
leech. 

“ Unless I am very much mistaken, we shall very soon 
splendidly regild the imperial eagles. A Prussian prince 
reigns at our very doors. How can we think of such a state 
of things without indignation ? ” 

And in a convinced tone of voice he recited, with due 
hesitation at each comma, so as to taste the sweets of the 
phrase, a portion of the speech delivered that day by the 
Minister from the tribune of the Chamber of Deputies : 

“ Respect of the rights of a neighbouring people is not a 
reason why we should suffer a foreign power, by placing 
one of its princes upon the throne of Charles V., to de- 


6 


THE DISASTER. 


stroy the present equilibrium of forces in Europe to our 
detriment, and jeopardize the interests and honour of 
France.” 

He recommenced with vehemence: 

“ The Empire is strengthened by the imposing majority 
of the plebiscite. The will of France has made itself known. 
By the mouth of seven million five hundred thousand afiirma- 
tions it says to the Sovereign : ‘ Persevere in the way so 
gloriously opened up by the cannon of Sebastopol and Sol- 
ferino.’ Dare people pretend that public opinion is dis- 
quieted, and that our credit is falling? Let us dictate our 
reply from Berlin.” 

A bilious-looking little man came up and cut short the 
tedious speech which was upon the tip of M. Jousset-Gour- 
nal’s tongue. 

What a state of enthusiasm, counsellor ! Considering 
you are one of the supporters of the Liberal Empire, you are 
extremely bellicose.” 

“ But after the declaration read by the Minister at the 
Chamber ” 

“ The Duke was energetic, but, after all . . . he is a man 
who prides himself upon making Hapoleons yield simply by 
squeezing them between his fingers. . . . How, just think: 
without alliances in case of war we are lost. Austria? A 
country disorganized and without resources. Italy? That 
is worse still. Therefore we are alone, going to face united 
Germany, a country which will rise like a single man. You 
will then have on the one hand, my dear M. Jousset-Gournal, 
a strong nation, passionately devoted to its princes, served by 
numerous troops superlatively well drilled and armed. On 
the other hand ” 

Clement Bris, the playwright, looked fixedly at Du Breuil, 
who recollected having seen him at the house of the Princess 
Mathilde. The two men shook hands. Bris’s hand was limp ; 
contact with it was displeasing. Du Breuil remembered that 
in the Princess’s saloon, open to the elite in literature and 
art, Bris had charmed him with a number of others by the 
sobriety, the clearness, the wit, of his conversation, which 
was as bitter as truth. On this occasion also he submitted to 
the irritating charm. 

“ On the other hand,” continued Bris, and the Com- 

mander could not deny it, “ we have a brave but, nevertheless, 


THE DISASTER. 


7 


an inferior army. Our effective forces are feeble and scat- 
tered. No army can enter upon a campaign without a spe- 
cial preparation. What is more, the law of 1868 , which cre- 
ated the Garde Mobile, has remained a dead letter. Yes, I 
know very well that we have the chassepot, the mitrailleuse, 
and that our arsenals are full. ... I am apparently blas- 
pheming.” 

Du Breuil, who was hurt at the manner in which this 
admirably-informed literary man encroached upon his pro- 
fession, looked at him and envied the intelligence of his 
bright eyes. Such truths as he had spoken seemed to him 
to be a little unpatriotic, and dangerous things to say. As 
a compensation, M. Jousset-Gournal made him feel in- 
clined to laugh. His eyes were so much those of the chat- 
terer, and his lips must ever be on the move. The effect 
which this stout man produced was one of solemn imbe- 
cility. However, his knowledge as a juriscousult was to be 
admired. 

Very well. Why not speak?” he malignantly insinu- 
ated. “ The Emperor does not despise any advice, and you 
are in a position ” 

Bris shrugged his shoulders, and said: 

The Emperor knows much more than we do. He doesn’t 
cherish any illusion. Should war become inevitable, he will 
suffer it, but he does not desire it.” 

“ People around him desire it,” said M. J ousset-Gournal, 
lowering his voice. 

And forthwith he entered upon some interminable anec- 
dotes. 

“ Good-evening,. Pierre,” uttered a young and cheerful 
voice. And a white hand was laid on Du Breuil’s shoulder. 

“ Is that you, Maxime ? ” 

He recognised a club companion, Vicomte Judin, an Em- 
bassy attache. They strolled into another saloon. 

“Will you take supper with us?” asked Judin. “My 
trotters will take us in an hour to Tortoni’s. All our set will 
be there — big Peyrode, little Bloomfield, and Baron La- 
poigne.” 

All of them came up in Du Breuil’s mind — Peyrode, 
with his big red nose; Bloomfield, with his turnspit legs; 
.Baron Lapoigne, an old night-bird, decorated with all manner 
of orders, who was recognised as an arbitrator in duelling 
2 


8 


THE DISASTER. 


affairs, and who was without a rival at cards, which he could 
shuffle like a conjurer. Judin added: 

“ Nini Deglaure and Rose Noel will be there. Do come. 
Rose is free, and you know she isn’t a girl to be frightened 
at nothing. You know her motto : ‘ Short and good.’ ” 

“ No, this evening it is impossible.” 

“ Ah, I see you don’t want to be unfaithful to a beautiful 
lady whose name I won’t mention, but who, at the Opera- 
Comique yesterday, was looking for you all the evening from 
behind her fan.” 

“ Who do you mean ? ” 

That’s all right ! Come, now, don’t blush. I envy you. 
The Countess was magnificent. She was the admiration of 
the whole house, and Mme. Herbeau was wild with jealousy.” 

“ Because ” 

“ Her faithful one, Zurli, left her to go to the Countess, 
and the fine gentleman remained standing an entire act in 
her box, leaning over those admirable shoulders of hers. He 
admired them with that meditative air of the gourmand 
which he wears, you know, when he eats macaroni.” 

“ The comparison is somewhat ” 

De Breuil smiled and knit his brows, an action which 
gave a curious expression to his face. He did not like to hear 
Mme. de Gui’onic spoken of. He even avoided thinking too 
much about her. His affection for her had remained in his 
clear soul like a pool of water after a storm has passed: 
delicious glimpses of sky, clouds and trees were reflected in 
it, but the foundation of it all had been trouble. He ad- 
mitted the fact with ennui. Frank, upright, thoughtless, at 
times a child, a man contented to live on from day to day, 
he looked upon love as either a very frivolous or a very seri- 
ous thing. Women like Rose Noel had an evanescent, a 
charming effect upon him. But he saw well enough that deep 
love, allied as it is to fate, had nothing in common with those 
pleasant meetings at which that bird of passage, woman, 
when the billing and cooing were finished, plumed its feathers 
and flew away. In his liaison with Mme. de Gui’onic the 
thing which he regretted was that he had too long loved her 
as a friend, not daring to confess the full extent of his desire. 
The generous gift which she had made of herself had come 
too late, and was followed with regret, if not with remorse. 
His sense of loyalty was wounded when he shook the Count 


THE DISASTER. 


9 


by the hand, though he well knew he was Isaure’s husband 
only in name. Such scruples as these he still retained at 
thirty-three years of age, notwithstanding the fact that he 
had seen something of life, and that women had always 
spoiled him. 

He dismissed the thought from his mind, for it had called 
up other thoughts, also melancholy. Why not, indeed, have 
supper with Judin and their mutual friends? He was 
tempted, but in accepting the invitation he would hurt the 
feelings of one of his old comrades. Captain Lacoste, Adju- 
tant-Major of the squadron of Lancers of the Guard cantoned 
at Saint-Cloud, to whom he had written. A camp-bed 
awaited him in the small whitewashed bedroom on the first 
floor of the barracks, which lay in the shadow of the palace. 
They had been friends when children, but, their paths in 
life having diverged, had rarely had an opportunity of seeing 
each other. Du Breuil had eagerly seized this opportunity 
of spending a few hours with him. 

Well,” said Judin, “ I must present my respects to the 
beautiful Mme. Langlade. Come along ! ” 

The diamonds of the senator’s wife were brought into 
relief upon her bare skin like jewels in a jewel-case. They 
sparkled like large drops of dew. Her forehead was promi- 
nent, she had superb fair hair, and her under lip protruded 
somewhat like a split cherry. Ho sooner did she see the two 
young men than she shot at them that quick glance with 
which she usually summed up the youth of a rival or the 
performance of a thoroughbred. It was a look which had 
the pretension of infallibility, and, so well does assurance 
carry the day, it did intimidate important personages. 

“ Silence, Chartrain ! ” she said in a peremptory tone, as 
she closed her fan with a sharp blow upon the fingers of a 
stout gentleman. He was ridiculously fat-cheeked and sanc- 
timonious. Round his neck he wore the red tie of a Com- 
mander. “ How can you retain such a hope? We shall never 
have a better opportunity. Ask our lords and masters over 
there ” — she turned her head towards the saloon where their 
Majesties were sitting — “ what they think.” 

It is none the less true that the Government has ap- 
pealed for the semi-ofiicial intervention of the Foreign Office. 
The Cabinets of Vienna and Florence will also act. As to 
Sehor Olozaga, who represents the Spanish Government here. 


10 


THE DISASTER. 


he this very day wrote a most pressing letter to the Regent, 
asking him to place Prince Leopold on one side. That gives 
one hope for a pacific solution of the difficulty.” 

Mme. Langlade shrugged her shoulders, and called Judin 
and Du Breuil to witness what she said. 

Speak for yourself, Chartrain — ^you who are not even a 
militiaman. We are going to have a war, aren’t we, gentle- 
men? We must! It is in the interest of the country and 
the dynasty.” She again turned her head towards the im- 
perial saloon, which was the object for all eyes, the centre for 
all preoccupations. “ The Empress is exceedingly beautiful 
this evening.” 

“ The Emperor apparently suffers,” said the stout official 
with respectful fervour. 

Oh, the Emperor!” 

Mme. Langlade’s drawling tone contrasted strangely with 
her former passionate vivacity, and it clearly revealed the 
secession of a party — that to which she herself belonged. 
She continued: 

How gracious the Prince Imperial is ! What an admi- 
rable disposition! Do you know, he really wants to set off, 
to place himself in the ffront rank. A very Mapoleon ! ” 

Poor child ! ” exclaimed Chartrain, who, stout and ri- 
diculous though he was, had suddenly assumed the air of a 
very fine fellow. “ I hope that God will spare him the specta- 
cle of such a horror.” He turned towards Du Breuil, and 
said very simply, as though in excuse for his words: “You 
see, I myself have a son who is going with the army. He is 
so timid and delicate that his mother and I shall be very 
anxious.” 

Mme. Langlade eyed him from head to foot. 

“ The very idea ! I also have a son, but he is dying to 
fight. If he were otherwise disposed I should renounce him.” 

A sadness came upon the fat-cheeked face; a silent re- 
proach appeared momentarily in his large eyes, which filled 
with tears. 

Du Breuil was touched. His own family in their chateau 
in the department of the Creuse rose up before him — the 
manly face of his father, an officer who had fought in the first 
African campaign, and who had retired when young with 
the rank of Major, when his right arm was shattered by a 
Kabyle bullet; the sweet, thoughtful face of his mother. 


THE DISASTER. 


11 


They would be getting alarmed at the news — the father sto- 
ical, the mother keeping back her tears; both silent, as was 
their wont. He knew the full meaning of this silence be- 
tween two beings who adored each other. His younger 
brother, a Lieutenant of Zouaves, had fallen a victim to the 
Mexican expedition. His parents did well never to speak of 
their dead son; they never ceased to think of him. Should 
war break out, he also might disappear. 

For the first time the idea struck him forcibly. The 
sudden shock caused him to momentarily lose consciousness. 
The lustres and girandoles, and the flames of the candles, 
became vacillating and black. When he again saw the light 
dresses, the bare shoulders, and the uniforms a second after- 
wards, he felt as though he had just awoke from a dream. He 
had lost all idea of time. Was it caused by dizziness, fatigue, 
or simply by the stifling heat? He mechanically crossed 
the saloons. Judin was conversing with a toothless old lady. 
Mme. Langlade questioned a passing Minister. They seemed 
to be ever so far off. 

Suddenly he found himself behind the large shoulders of 
Jaillant and De Chehot. They partly hid the wide, open 
doorway which led into the Salon des Vernet, and above their 
heads could be seen the sparkle of a lustre, and the large gilt 
frame of the Orage sur Mer.” 

Du Breuil leant forward and saw the Emperor seated, 
speaking to the Marquis de Champreux. The Chamberlain 
was bending towards him, respectfully nodding his head. A 
vague smile appeared and disappeared upon the dull face of 
the Emperor. Slowly he turned towards the group formed by 
the Empress and the Prince Imperial, around whom, in a 
circle, were Comte Duclos, General Frossard, and two ladies 
of the palace. Du Breuil was seized with the fleeting and 
irrational idea that the Sovereign felt his isolation. His 
heavy face, upon which silent resignation was stamped, was 
puffed out under the eyes; the corners of the mouth were 
drawn in, and his long gray hair hung down like a symbol of 
old age. A tired look was in his eyes. When at table, Du 
Breuil had felt a sense of uneasiness at the heavy fixedness 
of that look, and he imagined he could read in it the paraly- 
sis of powerless goodwill, the clairvoyance of a mind dis- 
abused, and like that semi-lethargy upon which fatality has 
placed its mark. Suffering caused by the cruel ailment, on 


12 


THE DISASTER. 


the subject of which the most intimate at Court avoided 
speaking, had given the august face a harassed appearance, 
which indefinitely disquieted him. 

Prince Louis approached his father. He was a slender 
young man, and his black dress-coat, his white turn-down 
collar, his fair hair, and his bright eyes, gave him the look 
of a young Englishman. The Emperor looked at him as he 
approached with grave tenderness, and a peaceful, happy 
smile upon his face. He felt that he was no longer iso- 
lated. 

A sense of shame came over Du Breuil, and, as though 
his curiosity was indelicate, he turned away his eyes. At 
the same moment he heard Jaillant whisper into De Che- 
not’s ear: 

Hot very brilliant this evening. . . .” 

They turned -round, and, upon seeing him, were silent. 
He could not exactly make out what he experienced; it was 
a feeling of something very solemn and very sad. 

The Marquis de Champreux left the saloon to look for 
M. Favergues, for whom the Emperor had inquired. The 
name of the publicist was whispered from person to person, 
and, like a train of powder, reached the owner in a corner 
of the room where he was conversing with Mme. d’Avilar and 
the banker Manhers. He rushed forward in the midst of the 
envious and smiling people, the former servile, the latter 
malicious. It was Eavergues’s newspaper which directed 
opinion. Mme. Langlade stopped the Marquis de Champreux 
as he was passing her. The Marquis, still a fine-looking man, 
but clothed with importance and exaggerated British slug- 
gishness, was the possessor of the highest domestic virtues. 
His irreproachable dress and his tact set off one of those 
agreeable but selfish egoistic natures which protect men 
from all disagreeable emotions. His life had been a contin- 
ued model of nice perception. His motto was “ Just enough.” 
Even when zealous he exhibited prudence. 

Du Breuil, accidentally elbowed by someone near him, 
again turned his head towards the Salon des Vernet. He saw 
the Emperor proceeding with heavy step to his private rooms, 
his head upon his breast, and his back slightly bowed, fol- 
lowed by Favergues. The sight reminded him that time was 
passing, and that the destinies of this ruler of France and of 
the country itself were at stake. 


THE DISASTER. 


13 


How depressed the Emperor was ! On the eve of a prob- 
able war, that seemed to him regrettable. But the glorious 
past was a sufficient answer for the future. Recollections 
crowded upon him. The victorious Empire greeted with 
trumpet-blasts and shouts; that radiant and magnificent re- 
turn of the troops from Italy, in August, 1859 : the streets 
and the showers of flowers, the horses covered with garlands, 
the bayonets decorated with bouquets, and, behind the trum- 
pets, ahead of the wounded, the Emperor Napoleon, alone, 
preceding the army. He saw him again on the Place Yen- 
dome, seated motionless upon his chestnut horse, sword in 
hand, the grand red cordon saltire-wise. He heard the tre- 
mendous huzzas from the stands, the shouts, the delirious 
cheering of the crowd. . . . Then, again, in June, 1867 — 
those were always summer fetes, with a clear blue sky and 
an unclouded sun — the Longchamps review, when the whole 
of the Guard, regiments from the four corners of France, 
one hundred thousand soldiers, were massed on the Boulogne 
plain, and an immense crowd of spectators filled the amphi- 
theatre of Suresnes. In the midst of great silence, follow- 
ing upon the salutes from Mont Yalerien, the Emperor, be- 
tween the Tzar and the King of Prussia, advanced upon his 
black thoroughbred, ablaze with gilding. One hundred and 
one cannon roared out, and the sound of prolonged cheering 
rose towards the blue sky. . . . 

The Marquis de Champreux, bowing to this one, smiling 
to that, and, further on, straightening his figure to its full 
height, came towards Du Breuil, who said to him, somewhat 
ironically : 

^^Well, uncle, what decision does M. Favergues come to? 
Shall we have to pack our kits ? ” 

The Chamberlain placed a finger upon his lips and raised 
his eyes towards the ceiling. His silence implied an infinity 
of secrets; the fate of Europe seemed to hang upon his lips. 
Du Breuil’s mind intuitively conceived all those great and 
small mysteries — the most serious political on-dit, as well as 
the most petty details of the wardrobe — which for years past 
had been hidden in the old beau’s official brain. The Marquis 
de Champreux held out his hand to him, a white hand, with 
nails so neat that people said he placed sheaths over them 
every evening. 

“ Good-bye, if I don’t see you again soon.” 


14 


THE DISASTER. 


He glided with supplejiess and firmness into the adjoining 
saloon. Detained by M. Jousset-Gournal, he said: 

“Wait awhile. Her Majesty the Empress will shortly 
pass into the saloons.” 

Du Breuil felt behind him a breath of night wind. He 
leaned against the side of one of the high windows and 
looked out upon the park, as black as ink, and at the sky, 
dotted with stars. The penetrating scent from the flower- 
beds carried him back to the conclusion of dinner, when he 
had also deeply inhaled that odour, delicate and mysterious 
as the presence of woman. He recollected his arrival at 
Saint-Cloud, and his presentation to their Majesties. Cer- 
tain details, such as the conversation, the Emperor’s lack of 
appetite — he hardly touched the dishes placed before him by 
his pages — and the vivacity with which the Empress rose 
from table, came back to him. That dinner was an exquisite 
and flattering impression, and he would retain the remem- 
brance of it all his life. He was coutent, upon the whole, 
at not having cut a bad figure, with his stripes, his cross of 
officer of the Legion of Honour, and his youthful appearance. 

He felt himself especially attracted towards the person 
of the Emperor. The Empress had fascinated him, but to 
him she was the Sovereign, not an ordinary being, in whom 
the woman had been overshadowed by splendour of rank. 
The Emperor appeared to him to be more human. He had 
a desire to serve him, to assist him in the coming danger. 
The splendid name of Hapoleon had exercised an irresistible 
power over his childhood, and behind the Caesar of the pres- 
ent he saw the laurelled profile of the Other. The epic shade 
rose up, dominating an overwhelming din of battles. He 
saw the defeat of kingdoms, battle-fields from which rose 
cries and smoke — Jena, Austerlitz, Marengo — the incense of 
the Te Deum, the imperial purple, the golden bees, and then 
the white retreat from Russia, the island of Elba, the eagle 
flying frona steeple to steeple as far as the towers of Notre 
Dame; and, in conclusion, the most tragic downfall which 
the world had ever seen — Waterloo and Saint-Helena ! — mo- 
mentarily vibrated in his soul, and, in spite of the warm 
and luminous atmosphere, in the midst of ladies in evening 
dress and the decorated uniforms of officers, in the presence 
of that night of flowers and stars, the same singular sadness 
penetrated him. 


THE DISASTER. 


15 


A suppressed hubbub broke upon his reflections — the Em- 
press was crossing the saloons. He saw her escorted by the 
Prince Imperial, and followed by the courtiers on duty, pass- 
ing between a triple row of people, who bowed low. Mme. 
de Limal and Mme. d’Avilar were in the front rank, court 
smiles upon their faces. Jaillant and Chenot, swelling out 
their breasts, wore the fervent air of pious worshippers at 
high mass. Manhers smiled grotesquely, and the stout, fat- 
cheeked M. Chartrain, disconsolate at being hidden from 
view by the banker, was standing on tip-toe. 

Du Breuil, standing in the embrasure of his window, be- 
hind dress-coats and bare shoulders, watched the Empress 
for a long time. She was tall, and in the full splendour of 
her maturity. There was something despotic about the charm 
of her fair beauty. Her eyes, of an icy magnificence, sparkled 
with, pride and power of will. The restlessness of her 
thoughts gave her complexion, which was more animated 
than usual, an ardent and tender expression, the haughtiness 
of which impressed him. 

She bowed to right and left, with much grace, and, as she 
moved away in deep silence, she every now and then let drop 
a word, nodded her head, or smiled. 

He still retained her image after she had disappeared. 


CHAPTER 11. 

The whole length of the double flight of steps of the 
grand staircase was brilliantly illuminated by triple candela- 
bra. He momentarily stopped upon the landing to allow a 
lady, upon the train of whose dress he almost trod, to move 
forward. 

In the courtyard he took a deep breath. The water in the 
fountain-basins was of an inky blackness, and in the centre 
of one of them was reflected a star. The warm night was 
permeated with the wildness of the park, with the smell from 
the earth and trees. The whiteness of the statues, which 
stood in their recesses around the walls of the palace — the 
two wings of which they served to decorate — ^was strikingly 


16 


THE DISASTER. 


apparent in the flood of light from the large windows. Car- 
riages were in waiting for the guests. He passed through 
the gates before the guard, and descended the avenue. 

Du Breuil liked this solitude. He took in deep breaths 
of air; he had a feeling of thirst. Then he experienced a 
sense of astonishment upon recovering possession of himself 
— his very self — just as though being at the palace and the 
importance of the events of the evening had conferred upon 
him a transient prestige which he had abdicated upon leav- 
ing. He regained possession of his precise and limited per- 
sonality — a personality which was the result of his everyday 
life, and which was regulated by habit. The Du Breuil who 
had just dined at their Majesties’ table was again the man 
who, in the morning, had been awakened in his small first- 
floor apartment in the Hue de Bourgogne by the pawing of 
his mare Cydalise, and the grumbling of honest Frisch, his 
Alsatian orderly. Dressed in a couple of seconds, he had set 
off for a gallop in the Bois to get rid of a headache, caused 
by a sleepless night, and a feeling of regret consequent upon 
losing fifty louis at his club. He felt certain that his horse 
had got wind-galls, and that his shoemaker had sent in his 
bill for the third time. 

He almost passed the barracks without seeing it. 

A sudden movement of the sentry near the entrance 
dragged him from his reverie. He approached the door and 
searched for the bell. He heard its tinkle, the grumbling 
of the sleepers inside the building, and a heavy step ap- 
proaching. Then a key was turned, and the door silently 
opened. 

“Captain Lacoste?” said Du Breuil. 

Upon seeing the visitor’s rank, the corporal, who was half 
asleep, suddenly became wide awake. He stammered a few 
unintelligible words, and went for the quartermaster, who 
appeared from the guard-room, still very sleepy. He was a 
veteran covered with medals; a kind of giant with a phe- 
nomenal moustache. His figure showed off well in his white 
coat, and his czapska, tilted on one side of his gray head, 
gave him a droll appearance. 

“ Captain Lacoste ? ” repeated Du Breuil sharply, some- 
what annoyed at having to wait. “ Come now, quartermaster, 
wake up ! ” 

An expression of sorrow, mingled with resignation, came 


THE DISASTER. 17 

upon the manly face. The non-commissioned officer bustled 
his men. 

“ Quick there ! Light the lantern ! Gouju, show the 
Major the way ! ” 

When his guide was ready, and the old soldier, motion- 
less, his heels together, his right hand on a level with his 
forehead, his eyes fixed, straightened himself in a military 
salute, Du Breuil still felt confused at his hastiness. The 
silent attitude of the quartermaster was like a reproach. He 
turned towards him, and in a softened voice, full of polite- 
ness, thanked him, at the same time inclining his head. 

Gouju preceded him. And as they crossed the courtyard, 
the lantern, swinging in the man’s hand, sent forth diverging 
rays of light resembling the cords fastening a balloon to its 
car. The feeble cone of light emphasized the surrounding 
darkness. The sleeping barracks was wrapped in deep silence. 
Du Breuil could only hear a few slight sounds coming from 
the direction of the stables — a monotonous refrain murmured 
by a soldier on guard, the sneezing of a horse, and the rattle 
of a rack-chain. 

“ There are two steps, sir.” 

Du Breuil entered a large building. A smoking lamp 
which was hanging on the wall gave forth a strong smell of 
oil. In the semi-darkness he could dimly make out a stair- 
case. At the landing on the first floor the man knocked tim- 
idly at a door. 

Come in ! ” exclaimed a loud voice. 

Lacoste, dressed in a small canvas coat and red trousers, 
sprang from the hammock in which he had been smoking his 
pipe. He silently held out a bony hand to his friend. He 
was a man with a long sun-burnt face, a red moustache and 
imperial, and his frank blue eyes — the eyes of a child — gave 
him an air of coldness. 

“Good-evening,” he said; “Gouju, be here with the lan- 
tern in half an hour.” 

The man left the room. Lacoste smiled at his friend. 

“ There is your bed,” he said, pointing to his own, which 
consisted of some very rough but very white sheets, across 
which was thrown a quilt of Jouy cloth bearing a pattern 
of red flowers. “ And here is mine,” he added, pointing to 
the hammock. “ Don’t think you are inconveniencing me. 
I sleep in it every night.” 


18 


THE DISASTER. 


He fetched out a bottle of beer, which was standing in a 
bucket of water to keep fresh, and filled two large tumblers. 

“ Here’s to your health ! ” 

They drank. Then Lacoste pointed out his pipe-rack, 
which was filled with pipes of all sizes — in cherrywood, meer- 
schaum, and white and red clay — all of them admirably 
coloured. 

“ Take your choice.” 

Du Breuil took a diminutive pipe with a small negress- 
head bowl, and methodically filled it. Lacoste pulled for- 
ward the cane rocking-chair. 

“ There you are ! ” 

After these essential rites had been carried out there was 
a silence. Du Breuil had become accustomed to his friend’s 
laconism, and did not hurry himself to speak. He settled 
himself in the easy-chair, and felt quite at ease in that small 
room with Lacoste. He had a great affection for his friend. 
The window was open, and looked on to a mass of trees. 
Every now and then a gnat, attracted by the light, would 
fly in and circle round and round the lamp. Suddenly the 
edge of the green cloth which covered a table burdened with 
registers and papers was raised, and the enormous head of 
an Ulm dog made its appearance. His large eyes, like night- 
lights burning upon oil, turned towards Du Breuil, who called 
the animal to him. The powerful beast came forward, and, 
resting its head upon his knee, looked at him so searchingly 
that it seemed to say: 

Are you a friend of my master ? ” 

Lacoste’s face softened. 

“ Last night he pinned a thief to the ground by his throat. 
Three ruffians tried to rob me on the river-bank. One of 
them I knocked into the river, the other took to his heels, and 
Titan kept the third between his teeth until the patrol came 
up. Titan!” cried Lacoste. 

The dog darted forward, beating the air with its heavy 
tail. It placed its paws upon Lacoste’s shoulders, and looked 
at him — trying to read his thoughts — with infinite tender- 
ness. Its red lips moved back over its white teeth, so that 
it seemed to be laughing, and did really laugh with delight. 

“ He is my brother,” said Lacoste. 

The dog gave a low whine, and stretched itself at his 
feet. 


THE DISASTER. 


19 


“ What are you going to do with him/’ asked Du Breuil, 
should war break out ? ” 

I shall take him with me./ 

Animals are adopted, not only by officers, but by regi- 
ments; and wherever the one goes the other follows. As an 
example, on the day of the return of the troops from Italy, 
there was to be seen a white goat with a black head, belong- 
ing to the Light Infantry, and the Zouaves’ dog, decorated 
with flowers, and a flag stuck in his collar. 

Thinking to please Lacoste, who had a great affection 
for his horses, Du Breuil said: 

“ Are Conquerant and Musette all right ? ” 

In splendid form. Beady to set off to-morrow.” 

Again there was a silence. Then Lacoste, winking his 
eyes, said, in what was meant to be an off-hand way; 

“ Are they talking about it ? ” 

“ Where?” 

Up there.” 

The point of his moustache indicated the palace. 

Du Breuil took a draw at his pipe. 

“ Yes. They smell powder.” 

Lacoste blushed like a child who has been surprised by 
some unexpected pleasure. 

“ All the better ! One gets rusty. A soldier who doesn’t 
fight isn’t a man.” 

He wearily stretched out his lean arms, and unintention- 
ally knocked against his large lancer’s sabre, with its gold 
sword-knot, which was suspended upon the wall. 

Du Breuil smiled. 

“ You will be promoted to rank of Major.” 

Lacoste looked at him, did not immediately understand, 
and growled : 

“ Major? Well, I don’t mind for the sake of the old peo- 
ple” — like a model son he sent half his pay to his parents, 
poor peasants in the department of the C reuse — “but in 
other respects, you know, I’m all right as I am.” 

He looked at Du Breuil’s cross of an officer of the Legion 
of Honour, at his gold shoulder-knots, and the embroidery 
upon his dolman. It was not an envious look, it was only 
an appreciative one, and seemed to say: “We are of equal 
worth, but you have the additional advantages of luck and 
influence. All the better for you ! ” 


20 


THE DISASTER. 


“ As for myself,” said Du Breuil, with a show of modesty, 
“ I have nothing to gain, unless it be one or two years on 
the service-list.” 

“ Pooh ! ” exclaimed Lacoste philosophically. “ After that 
you have a right to be ambitious. How old are you ? ” 

“ Thirty-three.” 

Lacoste drew at his pipe ; it was a way he had of express- 
ing his opinion. He was six years older than his friend; 
he had one stripe less, and he was only a Knight of the 
Legion of Honour. But he was not envious; he fully recog- 
nised Du Breuil’s superiority. They had been intimately 
acquainted when boys at the same village school, and Du 
Breuil, notwithstanding the difference in their ages, was even 
then in his eyes a fortunate and privileged person. The peas- 
ant’s son naturally looked upon the young gentleman from 
the chateau as quicker and more intelligent. The Du Breuils 
were liked in the district. Lacoste next came across Du 
Breuil in Italy, after leaving Saumur, where he entered after 
four years’ service in Algeria — four hard years of expeditions 
and bivouacs. And the Second Lieutenant of dragoons and 
the Lieutenant of artillery renewed acquaintance. Since 
then Lacoste had been steadily promoted, while Du Breuil 
had advanced in the army by leaps and bounds. 

At twenty years of age Du Breuil left the Polytechnic, 
and spent two years at the Metz School of Artillery. What 
an abundance of memories he possessed of those days! His 
friend D’Avol and their mutual friends, the Bersheims, rich 
manufacturers — grandmother Sophia, the admirable house- 
hold of the Bersheims, little Anine and her brothers! For- 
gotten were they? No; but separated and far off. . . . He 
was a Lieutenant when he left the school, and his first stripes 
had hardly had the newness worn off before he went on the 
Italian campaign with the two batteries of the Motterouge 
division which formed part of MacMahon’s 2nd Army Corps. 
It was a brilliant and rapid campaign. His guns had opened 
fire, first upon Buffalora, where the Austrian forces were 
established, and then upon Magenta. In conjunction with 
General Auger’s reserve artillery, they had destroyed the 
entrance to the main street and its surroundings, and pre- 
pared the way for the infantry attack. Du Breuil was 
wounded by the blowing up of a caisson, but had remained 
under fire, notwithstanding his bleeding face and his shat- 


THE DISASTER. 


21 


tered arm. He was given the cross for that act of bravery. 
Shortly afterwards he was drafted into the Guard through 
the kindness of Marshal Canrobert, who had known his father 
intimately. He left the Guard to go to Mexico, a country 
of sinister memories, with its rains, its mud, its poisonous 
insects, and its unhealthy waters. 

A fixture at the siege of Puebla, the third to enter the 
penitentiary, and wounded at the attack of a quadre during 
one of those terrible house-to-house assaults under a shower 
of bullets, he had been promoted to the rank of Captain. At 
that very time his brother, whose constitution was under- 
mined by fever, had been invalided to Vera Cruz, and died 
there in one of those infectious streets which the zopilotes, 
those terrible vultures, alone kept clean under the leaden sun. 

Since that time Du Breuil had lived more a fashionable 
life than the life of a soldier. He was attached to the Paris 
Hat-major, and with Marshal Canrobert, the Governor, found 
he was at the vei’y fountain-head of useful and brilliant 
connections. During the 1867 Exhibition he acted as guide 
to the foreign officers, and several of these, including Baron 
Hacks, a Captain in the Brunswick Hussars, had left an ex- 
cellent impression upon him. He called to mind Baron 
Hacks’ haughty politeness. Were they going to meet again 
as enemies, face to face on German soil ? It would be a curi- 
ous experience. . . , Since August 15, 1869, Du Breuil, who 
had been made a Major, was appointed orderly officer to the 
Minister of War. 

“ Ho, really,” he repeated, “ there is nothing I desire. 
But, comrades ” 

“We don’t fight on that account,” said Lacoste. “ It is a 
sad promotion which follows upon the death of a neighbour. 
A man of heart does his duty without expecting anything 
for it.” 

Du Breuil smiled in dissent. 

“ There are very few disinterested officers. The best of 
them dream of promotion and the cross.” 

All the same, he had known men of simple heart, very 
heroes, very saints, such as Deresse, his Major, at Bufialora 
— Deresse, a friend and a father to his soldiers. 

Lacoste raised his stern face. Plis tempered and noble 
soul appeared in his limpid eyes. 

“Egoists and cynics may be found everywhere,” he said; 


22 


THE DISASTER. 


“ but you won’t find they are worth much. ... It is only by 
introducing sacrifice into our business that it becomes the 
noblest of all.” 

Du Breuil was more sceptical. 

“ When one is brought into contact with those high up in 
the ranks, one meets with so much ambition and empti- 
ness.” 

Lacoste replied: 

“ What does it matter ? J ust think : if, from the Sover- 
eign down to the common soldier who is about to be made a 
corporal, war was only the sum and total of covetousness! 
Why, I should know nothing more abject! No; there is 
something sacred in war to everybody but the man with a 
heart of clay. War is the school of sacrifice — of the greatest 
sacrifice a man can make, that of his life. Take the case of a 
hobbledehoy of the fields, an uneducated countryman, who 
has never heard tell of honour and fatherland. He enters a 
regiment, a gun is placed in his hands, and he is taught how 
to use it. Then war breaks out, and you will find him under- 
going cold and hunger, sleeping in the mud, and making his 
twenty-mile marches. The bugle sounds, and he will rush 
at the enemy, and will defend the flag, a hundred times risk- 
ing his life. He is a changed man, having learnt courage, 
endurance, solidarity, heroism — all the highest virtues. But 
for war he would have been ignorant of them.” 

Du Breuil agreed with him, but reservedly. 

War might be the means of raising souls above them- 
selves, but it also let loose the fierce animal natures of brutes. 
He thought of the cowards who came under the Provost’s 
jurisdiction, the insubordinates and those looters who were 
shot. Every army had its black sheep. It was only by means 
of terrible punishments that these men could be made obedi- 
ent. Like a funereal echo he recalled those words — Death, 
Death, Death — which were inscribed in almost every line in 
the Military Code. 

Lacoste filled the glasses. He blew away a fly which per- 
sisted in settling upon his forehead and on his hand; he 
was incapable of killing it. Then he continued: 

“ Times of great shedding of blood are salutary. Eire 
purifies and blood washes. In times of peace surveillance is 
relaxed and discipline is bad.' You yourself know this.” 

Du Breuil nodded. Certain Generals had recently com- 


THE DISASTER. 


23 


plained to the Emperor, and asked for the re-establishment 
of an inflexible discipline. 

“ I can see serious symptoms of disorder in our army, 
which resembles the fresh complexions of those consumptives 
who are racked by disease. We shall have to take care. De- 
bility slowly disintegrates large bodies of men. The reason I 
heartily welcome war is that it strengthens the nerves and 
the muscles, and puts new life into the blood.” 

Du Breuil said : 

“Yes; there is something great about war. War is a 
terrible angel. There is not a man of us at the present time 
who is not ready to do his duty. . . . But when one thinks of 
those who meet with their death, and the grief of those who 
loved them with their whole heart and soul, is it not enough 
to accept this curse as a necessary evil without hoping for it ? ” 

Lacoste, an expression of gloom upon his face, seemed to 
be looking far out into the night at his parents’ cottage, the 
trees, and their native place. Perhaps the old people, unable 
to sleep, were thinking of their absent son and the rumours 
of war. 

“ One can only die once,” he said, “ and I don’t know a 
more glorious death.” He raised his eyes, full of sincerity, 
and said religiously : “ It comes from God ! ” 

“Amen!” said Du Breuil to himself, moved by such con- 
viction. He ventured to say, however : “ It is all very well 
to fight, but one must win. We do well to count upon suc- 
cess, because in high places people are disquieted.” 

Lacoste smiled somewhat bitterly. 

“ There is something more important than numbers, and 
that is valour. Then, there is moral force.” 

“ There is no doubt about our valour,” said Du Breuil 
emphatically. 

Lacoste rose to his feet. His shadow reached the ceiling, 
making him look gigantic. 

“ With moral force, which everyone possesses,” he said, 
“ all will go well.” 

“ Keally, I don’t know what has come over me this even- 
ing ! ” exclaimed Du Breuil, throwing himself back in his 
armchair. “ There are times, like to-day, when one is alarmed 
at nothing. But we are not frightened at the thought of 
war, old fellow. We have seen many others, and we shall 
come out of this all* right.” 

3 


24 


THE DISASTER. 


There was a hesitating step at the door. 

“ Come in ! ” shouted Lacoste. 

Gouju appeared with the lantern. 

It is half -past twelve, sir.” 

“ I must go on my round,? said Lacoste. Will you ac- 
company me ? ” 

He pulled on his blue jacket, and buckled on his sword. 

“ All right ; I’m not sleepy,” Du Breuil answered. 

They descended the stairs, perceiving through a half-open 
door a long succession of bedrooms. In the courtyard great 
white phantom-like figures with bare legs were moving to- 
wards the troughs. One could feel that the barracks was 
crammed with men and horses ; the air was oppressive, and a 
deep silence reigned over all things. Crossing the courtyard 
and skirting the kitchens, from which came an unpleasant, 
musty smell, they passed the mess-rooms, and reached the 
stables, which were situated in a long building with windows 
shaped like half-moons. Lacoste pushed open a door. A 
breath of hot air met them. In the darkness could be seen 
the sleeping horses, some of which sneezed, while others, lying 
dowm, rose painfully to their feet as they entered. Some 
dogs were sleeping with their four paws stretched out and 
their heads thrown back, as though dead. A stableman came 
towards them carrying a lantern, in the light of wLich 
glistened the cruppers of the horses; the whitewashed beams 
stood out, and the straw matting which edged the litters 
gleamed. The man saluted. 

“ Who relieves you ? ” asked Lacoste. 

The man opened his sleepy eyes. 

“ Labourette.” 

“ Where is he sleeping ? ” 

There, sir.” 

At a vacant place between two hanging bars, which sepa- 
rated the stalls one from another, were sleeping three bare- 
chested stablemen. They were lying amongst the straw upon 
their cloaks. One of them was snoring; another was lying 
flat upon his stomach, so that one could only see the fat nape 
of his neck, which was of an astonishing whiteness; the 
third had his rigid, hairy, and yellow-nailed feet stretched 
out — feet which looked like those of a dead man. The last- 
named was the one who was next to be on sentry duty. 

Lacoste walked through the stable to assure himself that 


THE DISASTER. 


25 


no accidents had happened. Once he went to see if a large 
mare, which was restlessly pulling at her chain, had eaten 
her oats. 

“ She won’t drink, sir,” said the man. 

“ You must show her to the veterinary.” 

He passed on towards the horse-boxes which were re- 
served for the officers’ horses, and pointed out his own. 

Conquerant was stretched upon her flank, her large mus- 
cles standing out under her shining chestnut coat. Du 
Dreuil expressed his admiration. 

“ If you could only see what a jumper she is ! ” added 
Lacoste. 

Musette, which was a more refined animal, was sleeping 
standing up, her legs a little apart. She started, and turned 
her head. Her eye was black, with a white and pink pupil. 
She recognised her master, and neighed. 

“ My beauty ! ” he exclaimed, going up to her and putting 
his arms round her neck. He kissed her upon the nose. 
“ She’s a splendid animal ! Can do her five miles at a gallop 
without turning a hair. . . .” 

He did not leave her without regret, and, with an eye for 
everything, he pointed out to the stableman one of the stall- 
bars which had just fallen, waiting until it was hooked up 
again before leaving. When outside they again breathed 
freely; the healthy but heavy odour, charged with life in a 
state of repose, had enervated them. 

Lacoste continued his round. They made an inspection 
of the quarter, and then remounted the staircase to pass into 
the barracks proper. 

“You’ll forgive me,” said Lacoste; “this doesn’t smell 
very nice.” 

Du Breuil advanced to the threshold of the open door of 
a dormitory. By the light of Gouju’s lantern the almost 
naked sleepers could be seen stretched out to right and left. 
Above their heads were two shelves — one for the equipments 
and helmets; another for their saddle-bags and cloaks rolled 
into cylindrical bundles; at the bed-heads gleamed sabres 
and bridles, hanging from hooks. Backs for the lances could 
be seen on the walls, and under the bread-shelves were spoons 
and tin mugs. The succession of beds and kits was lost in 
the darkness. The only sound was that of hoarse and halt- 
ing breathing. The first lancer, a very fine, fair man, was 


26 


THE DISASTER. 


snoring with wide-open mouth. He was showing his teeth, 
and had the appearance of a man who laughs. His hairy 
breast slowly rose and fell. Du Breuil suddenly compre- 
hended the brute force which was asleep before him. These 
men conjured up a picture of manly energy, muscles ready 
for action, destructive vigour, and in the four corners of 
France at that very hour, in all far-off barracks — horse sol- 
diers, foot soldiers, artillerymen — the drowsy army was sleep- 
ing like an enormous animal, whose breathing he witnessed. 
He imagined the awakening of these thousands and thou- 
sands of men should the cry, “ To arms! War is declared! ” 
strike upon their ears. The vision was instantaneous and 
fearful. For the first time for a great while the dormitory, 
this simple room smelling like a den, with its naked sleepers, 
its accoutrements, and the flash of the steel of lances and 
sabres, appeared to him as a thing terrible and awe-inspiring. 

“ I am tiring you,” said Lacoste, continuing his round. 

You know the way.” 

He pointed out a small door on the landing. 

Du Breuil remained motionless, fascinated, on the thresh- 
old of the long room, lit up less and less distinctly as Gouju 
moved away with his lantern. The atmosphere was even 
more stifling than in the stables. The symmetry of the beds, 
the equipments, the sabres and lances arranged in regular 
lines, called up ideas of order and discipline — supreme virtues 
in an army. A great hope inspirited him ; he felt young and 
strong. It might be that he had been seized with doubts 
and uneasiness in the gilded saloons of the palace, in the 
midst of bloated and cunning courtesans, and that even the 
EmperoFs old age had disquieted him; but here, in the pres- 
ence of these men asleep beside their arms, he fully recov- 
ered confidence. These were soldiers like himself, rough and 
inferior brothers; they symbolized the energy of France 
and the hope of triumph. 

He again entered Lacoste’s room. Titan raised its head, 
recognised him, and went to sleep again. The young ofiicer 
walked a few steps, his hands crossed behind his back. La- 
coste’s shaving mirror shone from its hook near the window. 
He looked at himself in it for a long time. The examina- 
tion satisfied him. He saw a large forehead, brown eyes, 
a silky moustache, a diminutive beard, a dark complexion, 
and skin the texture of which was firm and smooth — in 


THE DISASTER. 


27 


short, a face containing evidences of good birth, and that 
seductive pride which pleases woman. Mme. de Guionic’s 
image came between him and the mirror. Then he had a 
sudden vision of his own face, disfigured. Supposing a bullet 
should pierce his temple, or the bursting of a shell should 
tear his face! . . . With a soldier’s fatalism he shrugged his 
shoulders. Everyone was destined to a certain fate. The 
best thing was not to think about it. He went to the window, 
and pictured to himself the sleeping palace, recently so up- 
roarious. Then he looked at the stars, and turned his head 
towards the great red glow which fioated over Paris in the 
dark sky. One word from the mouth of those two masters — 
the Emperor and the Empress — and France would rise 
tumultuously. 

Until Lacoste’s return he looked for a long time at the 
reddish light. A profound silence reigned; even the leaves 
stirred without noise. Hever had the stars been more beau- 
tiful. 


CHAPTER III. 

Du Breuil was seated at a desk burdened with papers, 
letters, and telegrams, in a room in which the Minister’s 
orderly officers were working. Three of his companions were 
seated with bent heads at other tables feverishly transcribing 
into registers orders which had been written in great haste, 
dashed off with coloured pencil. Yellow, blue, and green port- 
folios, bursting with carefully copied service-lists, were in 
every corner, all along the walls, and upon chairs. There 
were piles of memoranda and reports. 

A double padded door in green leather was continually 
opening and shutting. Aides-de-camp came and went after 
delivering hasty messages. A second door with glass panels, 
which opened on to the lobbies, was also ceaselessly being 
opened by restless and busy officers, who carried bundles of 
documents to be signed and stamped. Others came for in- 
formation. The Ministry of War had been transformed into 
an enormous humming hive for the last fortnight. • On every 
hand there reigned complete disorder. From morning to 


28 


TEE DISASTER. 


night the Minister’s office was inundated with requests. The 
fever of the whole country seemed to be concentrated in those 
narrow rooms. Claims and complaints converged there; a 
thousand difficult questions had to be solved; there was an 
infinite complexity of detail. Hundreds of orders and coun- 
ter-orders were sent out each day, carrying agitation and 
disarray to the four corners of France. 

Du Breuil and his companions were over head and ears 
in work. He had been writing for four hours bent over his 
desk, and every now and then the words came to have no 
meaning for him. He raised his head, his pen having ceased 
to glide over the paper. 

“ What is the date ? ” he cried. “ This is too much ! Here 
I’ve been dating more than two hundred service-letters, and 
I don’t know what day it is. This is enough to drive one 
mad ! ” 

“ July the 20th. Come, now,” growled Major Blache, 
nicknamed the Wild Boar, from the adjoining table. 

He was a tough-looking old man, with a ruddy complexion, 
white, short-cropped hair, and an upper lip which stuck out 
because of two prominent teeth. 

“ Thanks, Blache. Are not you like me ? I’ve scribbled 
so much that no use is left in my fingers. Oh for a little 
rest ! ” 

tie threw himself back in his chair. 

“ Upon my word,” exclaimed Captain Clemendot in a 
falsetto voice, “ we don’t know we’re living ! ” 

He turned a bird-like profile towards Du Breuil, and, sat- 
isfied at the great depth of his remark, smiled with an air 
of superiority. He readjusted his fair, cunningly-curled 
moustache. 

Isn’t it so, Major? ” 

Du Breuil nodded his head. It was quite true. Such an 
existence made one lose all notion of time. What events 
there had been since the dinner at Saint-Cloud ! 

It was on the 7th that activity had commenced. War 
appeared so likely that everybody was at work in the offices. 
The plan of campaign remained secret. There was talk of 
organizing three armies — one in Alsace, under the command 
of MacMahon; one in Lorraine, under Marshal Bazaine; 
and the third, in reserve, at Chalons, under the orders of Can- 
rcbert. On the 11th, to his painful surprise, everything was 


THE DISASTER. 


29 


modified. There was only one army. The Emperor was the 
Commander-in-Chief, the Minister became General Com- 
mandant, and Generals Lebrun and Jarras, Deputy General 
Commandants. Du Breuil received the heart-rending in- 
formation that he would remain in Paris with two of his 
comrades at the disposal of General Dejean, the future Min- 
ister of War ad interim. 

He had been dumfounded by the news. At all cost he 
wanted to set out for the field of action. The prospect of 
remaining occupied with work which was unworthy of him, 
this wretched business of scribbling, caused him to pass from 
a state of great agitation to one of profound dejection. From 
seven o’clock in the morning until eight o’clock in the even- 
ing, and even part of the night, he was there, in that stilling 
and heavy atmosphere, bent over his table. Events were 
coming to a crisis; incredible disorder, which was daily in- 
creasing, reigned in the offices, and the same state of affairs 
was spreading to the army. 

He passed over in his mind the events of that never-to-be- 
forgotten fortnight. At one time it had been thought that 
the storm would blow over. It was on the 12th that Prince 
Leopold renounced the throne of Spain, and the King of 
Prussia approved of his action. But the same day troops and 
materiel commenced to be sent, and Count Benedetti asked 
the King to make an engagement that henceforth he would 
discountenance the candidature of the Hohenzollern. It was 
even whispered that Baron Werther, the Prussian Charge 
d’ Affaires, had been sounded by the Ministry, with the object 
of obtaining from his Sovereign a letter of excuse. There 
was then no longer any doubt — war was wanted in high 
places. . . . On the 14th, when he learnt of the unsuccess of 
the pourparlers at Ems, following upon Bismarck’s telegram 
notifying the check to the representatives of Korthern Ger- 
many abroad, Du Breuil saw that this time it was irremedi- 
able. That very evening he had worked far into the night, 
sending orders of recall to the reserve. The meeting of the 
Chamber on the following day was still fresh in his mind. 
Hour after hour his friends had brought him the news to the 
Rue Saint-Dominique. By their mouths he had heard the 
ringing speech of Emile Ollivier; he had been present when 
M. Thiers made his reply speech calling for calmness and 
refiection. But passions were let loose, the enthusiasm was 


30 


THE DISASTER. 


general; and that midnight he had sanctioned with all his 
heart the last words of the Keeper of the Seals. It was im- 
possible not to draw the sword and avenge the insult. With 
the whole army and with France he felt light-hearted and 
valiant of soul. 

He was disenchanted in the days which followed. He 
was irritated by the agitation in the streets and the delirious 
patriotism of the crowd; he would have liked more seemly 
conduct. The departure of the troops was tumultuous. At 
the Eastern railway-station the people treated the' soldiers to 
drinks, and very many of them became drunk. The hour, 
however, was a solemn one. The Due de Grammont had just 
informed the Corps Legislatif that the declaration of war had 
been officially issued on the previous evening at Berlin. 

These reflections, which he took care not to communicate 
to his neighbours, the energetic Blache and the bland Cle- 
mendot, perplexed him. 

The whole of the day he had been concerned with orders 
relative to the concentration of the Army of the Rhine. Fig- 
ures and names still whirled in his brain, and while he con- 
tinued to copy other documents he again distinctly saw the 
composition and position of the various army corps — ^the 
first, composed of the African troops and those of the East, 
under MacMahon, at Strasburg; the second, troops from the 
Chffions camp, under Frossard, at Saint- Avoid; the third, the 
Paris Army and the Metz Military Division, under Bazaine, 
at Metz; the fourth, the Korthern regiments, under Lad- 
mirault, at Thionville; the fifth, the divisions of the Lyons 
Army, under Failly, at Bitche and Phalsburg; the sixth, the 
regiments of the West and the Centre, under Canrobert, at 
Chalons ; the seventh, the regiments of the South-East, under 
Douay, at Colmar and Belfort; and the Guard, under Bour- 
baki, at FTancy. He could not help thinking of the dissemina- 
tion of the troops scattered along the frontier, and also the 
difficulties of their concentration. 

The reserves had been mobilized on the night of the 14th ; 
but the depots were at too great a distance from the regi- 
ments. Du Breuil thought that there would certainly be 
trouble in that respect ; valuable time was being lost. A man 
living at Perpignan had to go into Brittany for his uniform 
and equipment before reaching Metz or Strasburg ; and then, 
say, an Alsacian, whose regiment was in Alsace, had to hurry 


THE DISASTER. 


31 


to Bayonne to get his shoulder-belt. It was very evident 
that the German method of district recruitment was prefer- 
able. As to the active troops, which were converging towards 
the frontier from all parts, they had come from the four 
corners of France, and it would not take less than a fortnight 
to arrange them, to divide up the men and classify the various 
elements. There, again, the Prussians, with their autono- 
mous army corps ready in advance, seemed to him to have 
the advantage. 

Upon the occasion of preceding wars, Du Breuil, in the 
limited sphere of action of a Lieutenant of artillery, had only 
to set off and to fight. Now things were reversed. Formerly 
he had been one of the wheels of a machine, which he was 
now putting in motion. He was at the centre of agitation, 
at the very heart of the army. Everything sprang from that 
centre and reverberated there. Thousands of telegrams were 
despatched and received. Generals and their staffs, adminis- 
trative services, artillery, engineers, infantry, cavalry, active 
and reserve forces, crowded the trains. At the mustering- 
points men, horses, materiel, and stores alighted pele-mele in 
great confusion. The railway-stations were crowded, but the 
magazines were empty. Complaints and demands came in 
from all sides. 

That very morning a telegram from the Commissary of 
Stores had turned the offices upside down : “ At Metz there is 
neither sugar, coffee, rice, brandy, nor salt, and very little 
bacon or biscuit. Send at least one million rations immedi- 
ately to Thionville.” 

Du Breuil had had the text under his eyes, while Cle- 
mendot near him was classifying copies of despatches which 
had arrived each day. 

The swing door was pushed sharply open by Colonel 
Laune, a very young, small, dry man, with steely eyes. He 
handed a bundle of minutes to Major Blache to be recopied. 

“Urgent!” he said, disappearing. 

Du Breuil stood up and stretched himself. 

“ Five o’clock ! To think that Fm going to the Opera 
this evening! Doesn’t it strike you as curious, Clemendot, 
that one can go to the Opera after such a day ? ” 

The door again opened. Du Breuil turned his head. 
Colonel Laune said to him: 

“Have you nothing to do? Take these papers to the 


32 


THE DISASTER. 


Ninth Department, and tell General la Billardiere that it is 
for him to furnish the particulars for which he asks. He 
must get out of the difficulty himself.” 

Du Breuil bowed. When in the lobbies he met Captain 
Vacoissart, a little red-haired dragoon, who appeared de- 
lighted, and who cried without stopping: 

“Good-evening, Major! Do you know I leave this even- 
ing?” 

“ How’s that?” 

“ I rejoin the 4th Army Corps.” 

“You’re in luck’s way!” exclaimed Du Breuil, continu- 
ing on his way. 

It was too much, all the same ! After so many times in- 
spiring envy in others, was he himself to know what it was 
to envy? 

At a turning of a passage he nearly knocked over an em- 
ploye, who was loaded with registers to the chin. 

“Major! . . . Major!” exclaimed a stentorian voice. 

There was the sound of large shoes behind him and a 
knotty hand was placed on his sleeve. It was a priest, his 
cassock hitched up at one side and a stick in his hand. 

“ I am the Abbe Trudaine. I beg of you to tell me where 
I must address myself, to know whether or not my services 
are accepted. Wherever I go I am sent away ! ” 

Du Breuil looked at him. His robust head, thickset neck 
and shoulders, and his air of jovial frankness, inspired good- 
will. But Du Breuil hardly had time to stop. 

“ First Department, second bureau.” 

“ But I’ve just come from there,” said the Abbe piteously. 

“ Then, the Minister’s office. You see, M. I’Abbe, we are 
buried in work.” 

Orderlies moved out of his way. He mounted a staircase, 
on the landing of which was a group of officers in conversa- 
tion. 

“ Good-evening, Du Breuil ! ” cried a tall artillerjunan. 
“You’re going, aren’t you?” 

“ Go to the devil! ” fumed the Major, who replied with a 
vague gesture. 

He reached the Ninth Department. 

“ General la Billardiere ? ” 

“ Bus 3 % busy — cannot receive anybody ! ” came from a 
harsh voice, that of a dyspeptic chef de bureau in blue 


THE DISASTER. 


33 


spectacles, who never even looked to see who the speaker 
was. 

“ Communication from the Minister,” replied Du Breuil 
dryly. 

The doors flew open, and the General in person rushed 
out, followed by a tearful aide-de-camp, whom he had been 
rating. Seeing the Major, he exclaimed in a rough tone: 

“ What is it ? ” 

His nose was pointed forward like a double-barrelled 
pistol; his white moustache bristled from his purple face. 

Du Breuil carried out his mission. 

“ Get out of the difiiculty myself ! ” cried the General, 
whose cheeks were bursting with indignation. Stupor and 
bewilderment were in his voice. “ This is too much ! . . . 
A pen. Wait a bit. Major, and you shall take my letter back 
to His Excellency. I will add two lines. Ho, I won’t; I’ll 
go myseK.” 

He went out like a whirlwind. Du Breuil was about to 
smile, wEen a look from the dumfounded aide-de-camp 
stopped him. 

“Ah, Major,” he sighed, “I would rather be dead than 
continue such a calling.” 

And again there were the comings and goings of feverish 
employes in the labyrinth of passages, and words hastily 
uttered by people as they passed. Du Breuil had to rid him- 
self of an inventor who buttonholed him. The idiot sang the 
praises of his new gun with perfected projectiles. In one of 
the passages of the First Department, before the door of the 
sixth bureau (Infantry), Du Breuil was surprised to- meet 
one of his cousins, a Captain-Instructor in the 93rd of the 
line. 

“ Hullo, Vedel ! What are you doing here ? ” 

“ Good-evening, Pierre. They asked us for some docu- 
ments, so I am taking them.” 

It wasn’t with pleasure that Du Breuil stopped. Vedel 
was a poor relative with common manners. He wore thick- 
soled boots, and the gloves on his red hands were eight and 
a quarter. He was so timid that he stammered at the least 
embarrassment. He professed great gratitude, mingled with 
admiration, for his cousin. The Major, who had been of 
service to him several times, in his idea lived in a superior 
sphere of luxury, pleasure, and authority. 


34 


THE DISASTER. 


“ What’s the bet,” thought Du Breuil, that he also asks 
me if I’m going to leave ? ” 

“ Well, how goes the regiment? ” 

“ Not very well. Heaps of work,” replied Vedel. “ There 
are miscalculations, and we are far below the effective.” 

“ It’s like that everywhere,” said Du Breuil. 

Vedel opened wide his eyes. 

Things will go, all the same,” he affirmed. “ It will be 
sufficient to open the ball.” 

Du Breuil thought the phrase a comical one in the mouth 
of his cousin. He remembered having seen him looking so 
embarrassed one evening blundering through a quadrille at 
a ball. 

“ I haven’t a minute to spare. Au revoir, my dear fellow, 
and good luck.” He held out his hand. Vedel several times 
shook it violently. He left to-morrow. . . . Would they see 
each other again ? Du Breuil was somewhat overcome at this 
sudden expansion of feeling. “ A decent fellow,” he thought, 
continuing on his way, “ but not very intelligent.” 

Upon entering his office, Blache exclaimed: 

“ The Minister wants you.” 

His heart throbbed. What did the Marshal want with 
him? He crossed an antechamber — a large office in which 
Colonel Laune and several officers were working — ^pushed 
open a leather-upholstered door, and knocked at a second 
door. 

“ Come in ! ” 

He caught the conclusion of a phrase which General Jail- 
lant pronounced with animation. 

‘‘Not at all — not at all, Jaillant. Everything will go 
right,” replied the Marshal, seated at a large table, the arm- 
chair turned so as to face his interlocutor. 

He thrust a hand into his trousers pocket, and with the 
other took a large green pencil, which he rolled between his 
fingers. He was a man with a large nose and heavy, droop- 
ing moustache. His powerful face, heavy body, and full 
voice, breathed out assurance and authority. Although he 
also was buried in work, he affected a comforting calm, and 
seemed to have neither preoccupations nor doubts. He cast 
at Du Breuil a vague look, which, however, changed to one 
of meaning as he remembered the order which he had to 
give him. 


THE DISASTER. 


35 


Go quickly to the central depot of artillery, and ask for 
the report on the manufacture of arms. This is the third 
time I have asked for it.” He turned towards General Jail- 
lant. “ I have telegraphed to hurry on the manufacture of 
the last mitrailleuses.” Du Breuil was waiting. Go, my 
friend.” 

As he was closing the door behind him, he saw Jaillant 
take a cigar from a box which the Marshal serenely held out 
to him. 

He proceeded to the Rue Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin, but it 
appeared that he crossed on the way there with the officer 
charged to take the report to the Ministry. He returned and 
gave an account of his visit. A fresh piece of work awaited 
him. He was not able to leave the office before seven 
o’clock. 

He made one bound to his first-floor apartment in the Rue 
de Bourgogne. His concierge was occupied in sticking small 
tricolour flags into a mignonette-box before the window of his 
lodge. In his warlike ardour, increased by recent libations 
at the wine-shop, he was crying to the equally important cob- 
bler opposite: “To Berlin! To Berlin! Forward!” 

Recognising the Major, he made a bad attempt at a mili- 
tary salute, and cried : “ Long live the army ! ” 

A martyr to catarrh, this man, ordinarily, never left his 
lodge, but sat there, with crossed legs, botching trouser-seats. 
His wife, an enormous woman, a scandalmonger and a cow- 
ard, whose unique ideal was to make very sweet cafe au lait^ 
ran after Du Breuil with his letters and newspapers. 

“ Ah, sir, how glad I am,” she exclaimed, “ that war is ^ 
declared! And you’re going to hack those fat sausages in 
pieces ? ” 

He made no reply. 

His orderly, who was a long-bodied man with flaxen hair, 
was very shrewd, notwithstanding his awkward manners, and 
was devoted to his master. He had given up expecting him. 

“ Anything new, Frisch? ” 

“Major d’Avol came twice. He has left a letter for 
you, sir.” 

Frisch, who had risen with a start, and stood motionless, 
succeeded in hiding a plate of poulet au blanc which the 
second cook had passed out to him. 

“Jacques in Paris — what a surprise!” 


36 


THE DISASTER. 


Du Breuil entered a small drawing-room hung with 
cherry-coloured damask, where, above an Oriental divan, 
some ancient weapons were crossed upon the wall. One of 
Octave Feuillet’s novels, its pages half cut, was resting at 
the corner of the mantelpiece. Music scores overburdened 
the open piano. D’Avol’s letter was lying prominently upon 
a table. Du Breuil opened it. His friend, who had obtained 
twenty-four hours’ leave of absence, made an appointment to 
meet him for dinner at the Cafe Riche. 

He entered his bedroom. His full-dress uniform was 
lying ready upon the bed. Frisch had already carried hot 
water into the cabinet de toilette. Du Breuil’s refinement 
was to be seen in the smallest details, from the large scent- 
bottles in Baccarat crystal, to the exquisite toilet requisites 
arranged wdth the ivory-backed brushes upon a dressing- 
table with a mirror, framed in silver, which Mme. de Gui’onic 
herself would not have disavowed. 

She had paid a few short and radiant visits to this small 
apartment. He smiled with pleasure as he recalled the last 
one. A great impulse of tenderness carried him towards his 
friend. He reproached himself with not having loved her 
better and more; for no woman was worthier of inspiring a 
deep passion. Why was he not happy? All the same, he 
possessed the puerilities of a sincere lover, treasuring one of 
her gloves and a hair-pin — fine and annulated like her fair 
curls — in a small box. He had dined with her on the Thurs- 
day before at the house of Mme. Sutton. Since then, on 
Sunday, her receiving-day, he had hardly seen her. It had 
been impossible to exchange twenty words because of visitors. 
When he left she simply said to him: 

“ You will be at the Opera on Wednesday? I will reserve 
a seat for you in my box.” 

He determined to make up for lost time this evening. He 
v\^ould sit near her, and they would converse for a long time. 
Would they be in harmony? It was strange to think that 
soon, perhaps, they would no longer see one another. Flow 
quickly that evening would pass ! He felt deeply how 
ephemeral things were, and his heart was oppressed. To- 
morrow was dark and impenetrable; he lost sight of the way 
before him. What would become of their love when it, was 
submitted to the test of their being parted at a great dis- 
tance ? 


THE DISASTER. 


37 


“ Fetch me a cab,” he cried to Frisch. 

The orderly was in his small and untidy kitchen washing . 
down his fowl with a bottle of chablis, another gift from the 
enamoured cook. He wiped his mouth with the back of his 
hand, and rushed down the staircase. 

“ A quarter to eight ! ” Du Breuil cursed himself for his 
lateness. D’Avol would be furious. He recalled his friend 
such as he had known him since their youth — a slender, well- 
made man, with an obstinate wrinkle on his forehead and a 
concentrated look of ardour in his eyes. They had left the 
Polytechnic on the very same day, and had gone through the 
courses together at the Metz Artillery School. Jacques 
d’Avol, with his stubborn, fiery, proud, and despotic nature, 
was difficult to get on with in daily intercourse. Antipathetic 
to the majority, he remained to his friends a man of exquisite 
nobleness of soul and delicacy of heart. 

“ The cab is waiting, sir.” 

An astonishingly thin horse was blowing between the 
shafts. The cabman was stout, as if in compensation for its 
leanness. 

As soon as the cabman saw Du Breuil’s uniform, he 
showed great zeal, brushing the cushions of his vehicle, and 
smiling when he asked for the address. He finished by hoist- 
ing himself on to his seat with joyous ponderosity, and with 
a cut of his whip cried : Geeho, Bismarck ! ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

The evening twilight was in suspense in the splendour 
of one of those magnificent summer days which are long in 
dying. The Avenue des Champs Elysees, crowded with prom- 
enaders, was, as far as the sombre mass of the Arc de Tri- 
omphe, wrapped in a half-light. The Place de la Concorde 
was like an ant-hill, and a clamour arose therefrom. The 
crowd was running in the direction of the Pont-Royal, 
whence sounded the bugles of a squadron on the march. 
There were cries of “ Vive I’arme — e — ee ! ” words which, 
repeated by a thousand throats, were prolonged in an uproar 


38 


THE DISASTER. 


which died away in the distance like the sound of the wind 
and the sea. 

The street-lamps were lit in the Rue Royale. The cafe 
tables had been taken by storm. A compact crowd was in 
movement on the boulevards. A double current of people 
walked along the causeways. People were discussing the 
contents of newspapers which had just been published, talk- 
ing in a high tone of voice, and sneering. The women, in 
light-coloured dresses, were the most excited. Stout bour- 
geois pulled themselves to their full height, a martial ex- 
pression upon their faces; some were leading by the hand 
children dressed as soldiers. Three girls in blue, white, and 
red dresses were entwined in a cab, and saluted the crowd 
in the midst of a storm of cheers and jests. The one in blue, 
who was rather a pretty blonde, was delighted with Du 
Breuil’s gold shoulder-knots, and threw kisses to him. 

Suddenly there resounded the “ Marseillaise,” bellowed at 
the top of the voice. The traffic had to stop. Some men in 
white blouses, at the head of a column of people (some with 
caps and others with silk hats upon their heads), forced 
their way across the causeway. The ruffians seized the bridles 
of the horses and brandished their sticks. A bearded old 
man w^as shouting so loudly that his eyes started out of his 
head. At his side was a young man with a pallid face, whose 
head, heavy with drink, fell from side to side. The stream 
passed on, followed by an acrid odour of perspiration and 
wine. Some young men and boys, capering like monkeys, 
formed an escort. 

The cab stopped at the corner of the Rue le Peletier. Du 
Breuil, impatient, handed the cabman his fare, and struck 
out for the Cafe Riche. He had hardly reached the door 
than he heard the man, in a drunken voice, calling to pros- 
pective fares : “ Here’s a good horse for you ! Two seats for 
Berlin ! ” 

A crowd v/as forming. Du Breuil turned round. Some 
people were making a great fuss. He saw the soft hat and 
the red beard of a man, at whom the crowd, with violent 
gestures, was hooting and hurling insults. A policeman ap- 
peared just as blows were given. A cafe waiter explained : 

“ It’s nothing . . . teaching a Prussian a lesson. It ap- 
pears he advised the cabman to get a better animal if he 
wanted to reach Berlin.” 


THE DISASTER. 


39 


Du Breuil glanced at the terrace. Not a table was free! 
D’Avol was probably waiting for him in the restaurant. The 
sudden heat and the smell from the kitchen were suffocating. 

“ Are you looking for someone, sir ? ” asked the butler, 
with marked obsequiousness. 

The animation under the white gas-globes and in the 
midst of the uproar of voices was extraordinary. Busy wait- 
ers, carrying a dish in each hand, wound their way in and 
out in the large room; even the cellarmen put off their usual 
air of solemn gravity, and went from table to table with 
quick step. 

“ Yes, sir. If you will allow me ” and the butler 

guided Du Breuil amidst the diners. 

“We don’t notice our friends any more. How proud this 
soldier is 1 ” 

It was big Peyrode, seated between Bose Noel and Bloom- 
field, who spoke. He made pretence to propose a toast. Du 
Breuil smiled at the group, and thanked them with a nod 
of his head. Peyrode’s nose was redder than ever. . . . 

D’Avol at last ! He was buried in the Figaro, his elbows 
resting on the tablecloth. The table was set. A number of 
unfolded newspapers were near him, witnessing to a lengthy 
wait. The two officers shook hands. Du Breuil sat down. 
One waiter , took his sword, another his shako. 

“ Serve us quickly,” said D’Avol. 

The butler bowed respectfully, and straightened himself 
up again as though worked by a spring. He placed the hors- 
d’osuvre upon the table, and hurried the cellarman. 

“ Decidedly the army is held in honour to-day,” thought 
Du Breuil. 

He was very pleased to see his friend again. He inquired 
after his health and his affairs. What had happened at Ver- 
sailles? How was it that he had obtained leave of absence? 

Jacques, without losing a mouthful, placed him au 
courant. Between two train times he had come to kiss his 
mother. He had taken lunch with her at Saint-Germain, 
where she resided. The afternoon had been occupied in mak- 
ing purchases and transacting business. He would return 
after the Opera. 

While the cold trout was being removed and a duckling 
a la Kouennaise was being brought, the butler inquired what 
they would take next. 

4 


40 


THE DISASTEK. 


“ Lamb cutlets ? Asparagus-heads ? And as an entremets, 
iced peaches, Macedoine a la Prussienne” — he smiled dis- 
creetly — “ or Bombe Magenta ? ” 

The hum of conversation, the blue spirals of tobacco- 
smoke, the brilliant light of lustres reflected to infinity in the 
mirrors — everything excited D’Avol. He forgot the day’s 
fatigue, and felt a keen happiness from the warmth of the 
repast and the movement in the room. The noise of the 
street came in through the open windows, a continual hum- 
ming, with now and then cheers and cries. 

“ How I envy you! ” he said feverishly. “ You are at the 
very source. Decisions and news — everything passes through 
your hands. I don’t deny you have work. We have quite as 
much, but we are in complete ignorance. Reviews ... re- 
views . . . reviews the whole week. Time passes very slowly 
with these minutise. Orders and counter-orders. . . . First 
we’re going to set off, and then we’re not. However, the 
great day comes after to-morrow, and then farewell, Ver- 
sailles! En route for Haney, and Metz at our journey’s end. 
Eh! but it will be a pleasure to us, old fellow, to see Metz 
again. You are very lucky in not having been chosen, but, 
as certain as I am sitting here, you will trail your sword 
on the Esplanade before I do.” 

“ May God hear you ! ” exclaimed Du Breuil. 

“ You recollect the Cafe Parisien . . . and the games at 
billiards . . . and our dinners at the Hotel de I’Europe on 
Sundays when we were not invited to the Bersheims’ ? ” 

Recollections crowded upon them. They called over the 
names of their professors, smiling as they conjured up their 
fads and their ridiculous ways. They evoked the hospitable 
Bersheim household, where, in all truth, they had passed 
many happy hours. M. Bersheim, a distant cousin of D’Avot, 
was a rich manufacturer, possessed of a jovial and upright 
nature— in short, one of the best of men. And Mme. Bers- 
heim, that amiable woman, so beautiful and so sweet! Du 
Breuil recalled the bonnet a coques and the peaceful old face 
of Grandmother Sophia, the gaiety of the two sons, and, in 
particular, the delicate charm of little Anine. 

“ It is curious to think,” he said, “ that we shall perhaps 
very shortly be fighting in that smiling country of the Mo- 
selle, on the spot where we drank the rosy-coloured wine of 
Sey. Over the roads which we followed with slackened rein 


THE DISASTER. 


41 


on our morning rides, we shall again pass revolver in hand 
and eyes alert.” 

“ You must be mad !” exclaimed D’Avol. “Metz will never 
be the scene of the struggle. A well-informed man like you 
tell me such a thing as that ! ” 

“ The man who knows the true plan of campaign is a very 
sharp fellow. Only one thing is certain: the first one ready 
has the advantage.” 

D’Avol shrugged his shoulders. 

“We have been ready a week,” he said, “ and a child can 
trace the plan of campaign. Once the army is concentrated, 
and we cross the Rhine between Maxau and Germersheim, 
issuing into the Baden country, ISTorthern Germany is sepa- 
rated from the south. Bavaria and Wurtemberg are im- 
mobilized. Austria and Italy take up arms. And that famous 
Northern Germany remains.” He made a gesture of indif- 
ference. . . . “ Our grandfathers were at Jena.” 

The iced peaches were served. At the same moment the 
conversation was drowned in the noise from the street. There 
were peals of laughter and ironical cheers; the crowd had 
become rowdy. Suddenly the people swept in the direction 
of the Varietes. Some hustled women screamed. A number 
of voyous were descending the boulevard, holding brooms 
coated with resin, which did duty for torches. Three of their 
number were carrying in triumph a soldier of the line. They 
were singing at the top of their voices, and as much out of 
tune as possible, the hymn of the Girondins. Smoky tongues 
of flame sprang from their brands in the gathering darkness. 
They passed the Cafe Riche, and the diners from their seats 
saw the red train of fire which, amidst a multitude of sparks, 
waved above the heads of the people. “ Mourir pour la 
patrie ! ” . . . ever yelled voices thickened by wine. Then, at 
the end of the strophes, there came, with animal cries : “ To 
Chaillot, the King of Prussia ! ” 

Du Breuil continued: 

“ I have good hope. The stupidities of these first few days 
are inevitable. Everything will come right. It is a curious 
thing, however, that, in spite of this general enthusiasm, there 
are so few voluntary enlistments. There has not been the 
great zeal shown which was expected.” 

“ All the better ! ” exclaimed D’Avol sharply. He raised 
his face and looked at Du Breuil. His hair, thick and fine. 


42 


THE DISASTEK. 


was short-cut, resembling a brush. An intelligent look was 
in his eyes. “ So far, only trained soldiers. What results 
have the militia given? Nothing very great. We have no 
need of anybody. Once the mitrailleuses are working, and 
it will be a matter of a fortnight. Aren’t these mitrailleuses 
simply astonishing? You’ve read the account of the trials 
at Satory ? ” * 

“ I was there,” answered Du Breuil. “ Three hundred 
‘ screws,’ purchased from the knacker at four and sixpence 
apiece, were massed on the plain. Two mitrailleuses were 
being worked, and at the second discharge the whole cavalry 
was down. On the next day the experiments were continued, 
and there was a general massacre at the first round.” 

“ Marvellous ! ” 

“ Unfortunately, they have only been able so far to manu- 
facture one hundred and ninety.” 

However confident Du Breuil might be, he could not for- 
get the undoubted superiority of the Prussian artillery. He 
had read at the Ministry the reports of Colonel Stoppel, the 
military attache at Berlin. Various reports of officers sent 
on missions spoke well also of the Belgian artillery, which 
had recently been imported from Germany; range and accu- 
racy of shooting were surprising. 

D’ Avol replied : 

“ Don’t bother me ! There is some good in the Solferino 
artillery. Since we compare armaments, however, I reply by 
calling attention to the chassepot, which is worth fifty 
Dreysse rifles. . . . First of all, it has a small bore; then, it 
is easily handled, and can readily be brought to the shoulder. 
The other gun is heavy and cumbersome. That, however, is 
not the question. A club which is manipulated with strength 
will always be better than the finest blade in unskilful hands. 
Courage is everything. . . .” 

He sipped a cup of coffee. Liqueurs and various boxes of 
cigars were brought. Du Breuil chose a dry, light-coloured 
Havana, and cut off the end. 

“ I was just reading a very well-written article,” contin- 

* The trials of the new weapon were made at Meudon, in the presence of 
Colonel Verchere de Keffye and other officers. The greatest secrecy was ob- 
served, It was only after the war that the capabilities of the mitrailleuse 
were publicly known, the report of the General who commanded the troops 
at the Sarrehruck engagement stating that the officers were enthusiastic over 
its destructive powers.— F. L. 


THE DISASTER. 


43 


ued D’Avol. “ The newspapers are unanimous, aren’t 
they ? ” 

“ Quite,” replied Du Breuil. “ And what enthusiasm ! I 
saw the 7th battalion of Chasseurs go by, headed by some 
workmen. The staff was surrounded by friends. Saint- 
Cyrians and young ladies carrying bouquets. The people had 
mingled with the rank and file. One had seized a gun, and 
another a knapsack. There were citizens with kepis, and 
soldiers with caps upon their heads. The waggons, decorated 
with small flags, followed. Kisses were thrown to the can* 
tinieres.” 

“ That promises well for the return,” said D’Avol, in com 
elusion. 

The two officers took down their swords, and placed their 
shakos upon their heads. The room was half empty. The 
waiters moved to one side out of their way. The patriotic 
butler, a napkin under his arm, followed them at a distance, 
and, as they were about to pass out, made a deep bow, reveal* 
ing a pink and shiny baldness. 

The boulevard was black with people. A prodigious sue* 
cess was obtained by a cab from which gesticulated ten young 
men piled one on the top of another. Above a medley of 
arms, holding Chinese lanterns, swayed an enormous flag. 
Someone cried : “ Long live peace ! ” There was a grumbling 
among the crowd; fifty furious voices protested, crying: 
“ Down with cowards ! ” A diversion was created by two 
olficers in brilliant uniforms, who came out. The people 
cried : “ Long live F ranee ! ” 

Du Breuil’s spur caught a lady’s skirt. She was dark, 
and had blue eyes — the air of a young bride. lie apologized, 
but she prettily answered: 

^‘Kot at all — not at all, sir.” 

And, blushing, not only she, but her husband as well, 
appeared delighted. D’Avol and Du Breuil wound their way 
along the Hue le Peletier. Between the houses on a level 
with the causeway a strong light came through the doors of 
the Opera. The ticket-takers bowed and smiled, an usher 
with a chain round his neck preceded them to the foot of the 
staircase, where D’Avol took his leave to find one of his 
cousins in the orchestra stalls. 

So long ! ” exclaimed Du Breuil. 

The box-keeper announced him. Mme. de Gui'onic turned 


4^ 


THE DISASTER. 


her beautiful eyes towards him, and greeted him with a slight 
inflection of the neck, whose proud grace rippled to the 
shoulders. The two front-seats she had given up to Mme. 
and Mdlle. le Precheur. Du Breuil liked these people very 
much. The daughter was ugly, simple, and good ; the mother, 
who at one time had got herself talked about, was still in- 
dulgent, notwithstanding the hypercriticism which she af- 
fected. She even countenanced, with serene complicity, 
certain liaisons. Mme. le Precheur’s father, a respectable old 
man, was at the back of the box, and had been asleep since 
the dances in the flrst act. Being stone-deaf, the music 
didn’t trouble him much. 

Du Breuil sat near to Mme. de Gui'onic and explained the 
"reason for his lateness. Mme. de Precheur smiled and singled 
out D’Avol in the orchestra with her opera-glass. Mdlle. le 
Precheur’s whole attention was riveted on the stage. She 
was engrossed in Masaniello, and fanned herself with emo- 
tion. 

At that very moment Fenella, La Muette, abandoned by 
the Viceroy of Naples, and made the wife of Elvire, was con- 
fessing her dishonour to her brother. Masaniello swore to 
avenge her. 

Du Breuil found Mme. de Gu'ionic possessed of a charm 
more absorbing than ever. Until his appearance she had 
been cold and serious, the regularity alone of her features, 
and the harmonious contour of her bust, making her a beau- 
tiful woman. A marble ! ” Mme. Herbeau, in a box oppo- 
site, was about to spitefully say to the Chevalier Zurli. 

But she was living now. 

A slight colour had mounted to her face ; the texture of her 
skin had taken a nacreous lustre; she seemed transflgured. 

Du Breuil saw Mme. Herbeau bend towards Zurli, and 
from their expression saw that she was speaking of them. 

Diamonds sparkled on white throats, faces were lit up in 
the light which flooded the gay house, decorated in red and 
gold after the Itali n style. Many of those present were 
well known to Du Breuil. Everybody of note in Paris was 
there. It had been rumoured that the Emperor and Empress 
would be present at the performance. It was known now, 
however, that their Majesties would not come; but, to give 
an ofiicial character to the occasion, the Due de Grammont 
and Vicomte Laferriere were seated in the small oflicial box. 


THE DISASTER. 


45 


The Due and the Duchesse de Mouchy made their appear- 
ance. Du Breuil admired the Duchess’s fine profile, crowned 
with a garland of corn-flowers. In the orchestra stalls he 
recognised Jaillant, Bris, Jousset-Gournal ; in the first boxes 
Alanhers and his family, farther on General Chenot — with a 
moustache like a grenadier — Mme. Langlade and the Mar- 
quise d’Avilaf. The last-named escorted a young lady, whom 
she was trying to lead astray (under the very eyes of the 
husband), for the benefit of a bald diplomatist. People were 
impatiently waiting for Marie Sass, who was to sing the 
“Marseillaise.” The whole house was in a state of feverish 
excitement. It was plain from keen glances and animated 
faces that everybody was similarly preoccupied — these women 
in ball-dresses, these men mostly covered with decorations. 
Generals, artists, literary men, senators, deputies, lights of 
the Bar and of the medical faculty, large manufacturers, 
and idlers, all those in this luxurious and showy gathering 
of the elite who this evening represented France. 

The Neapolitan fishermen on the stage were revolting at 
the instigation of Masaniello; then, to hide their designs 
they sang a barcarolle. The chorus of young girls was re- 
sumed : 

“ L’ Amour s’enfuit, le temps s’envole ; 

Le temps emporte nos plaisirs 

Comme les flots une gondole ! ” 

The curtain fell. After exchanging a few words with the 
Le Precheur ladies, Du Breuil rejoined Mme. de Gu’ionic, 
who was readjusting the aigrette in her hair before a mirror 
in the saloon adjoining the box. He admired the pure line 
of her raised arm. She drooped her long and silky eyelashes 
under his expressive look. He admired the delicacy of her 
eyelids, convex like rose-leaves. They spoke calmly, however, 
of ordinary things. But Du Breuil’s look, passionately fixed 
upon her, compelled Mme. de Gui'onic to look up. His gaze 
penetrated to the very centre of her being. A movement of 
his lips expressed “ I love you.” 

The delight which she felt made her still more beautiful. 
She turned away her head. A worshipper of heroism, she 
was both exalted and saddened by war. To lose him. . . . 
Suppose he was wounded ! Her proud heart prompted her to 
dismiss all personal sentiments of egoism or cowardice. So 
she smiled courageously, and was persuaded, as was stated 


46 


THE DISASTER. 


on every hand, that the campaign would be short, and that 
glory would compensate for its perils. Du Breuil appeared 
to her greater because he was going to fight; she loved him 
better. 

“ Do you recollect our visit to the Salon ? ” he asked. 

You had on a pearl-gray moire dress. We lingered for a 
long time before Robert Fleury’s picture.” 

What picture? Ah yes! “Le Dernier Jour de Corinthe.” 
It had made quite a sensation, had obtained the grande 
medaille d’or. The canvas reappeared before him. Women 
and children in the midst of the supreme disaster had taken 
refuge under the statue of Minerva. In the distance the 
Consul Mummius, on horseback, was appearing with his 
legions. The massacre had commenced, and the survivors 
were being sold as slaves. Among the half-naked group in 
the foreground — beautiful bodies stretched on the ground, 
virgins and mothers driven to despair — was a veiled woman 
on her knees, with uncovered breast, watching the approach 
of the conquerors. 

Why do you ask ? ” she said. 

He smiled without replying. If he especially recollected 
the face of that woman, it was because she strangely resem- 
bled Mme. de Gui'onic. Other people had made the same 
remark that day. Other recollections crowded upon him. 

“ And the hunt at Fontainebleau, when you received the 
button ? On the previous day you showed 'me your green 
cloth habit, and you wore upon your head a little lampion 
hat with a white feather, which gave you an audacious and 
charming air.” He spoke low; his breath caressed her. “I 
can see you yet at the last ball at the Tuileries. I followed 
you up the wide, long staircase between the soldiers of the 
Cent-gardes drawn up in line and the flowers on the stair- 
case. The opal bracelet which you wear came undone just 
as you were entering the Salle des Marechaux. 

“ This bracelet,” she said, has never caused me anything 
but trouble.” 

He smiled. 

Opals are unlucky.” 

The door of the box was opened. Maxime Judin and 
M. Langlade entered. The senator inquired after the- health 
of Mme. de Guionic. And how was the Count? He was, 
then, going to remain in Brittany this year? The pretext 


THE DISASTER. 


47 


which she gave was her husband’s indisposition, but every- 
body knew the real reason for this prolonged absence — a 
certain Mme. de Ploguern, their neighbour, was not a 
stranger to it. M. Langlade had only come, however, to speak 
to Du Breuil. When would the Chasseurs d’Afrique leave? 
— his son, a Second Lieutenant at Oran, was burning to 
set off. 

“ At his age young men think the more mischief there 
is, the better the sport.” 

Vicomte Judin was telling Mme. de Guionic the latest 
pieces of scandal. He raised his head at the senator’s wordsj 
and said joyously : 

“ Certainly ! Do you know, Pierre, I’ve enlisted.” 

He enjoyed the effect which this announcement pro- 
duced. They congratulated him. 

“ The Colonel of the 93rd consents to take me.” 

“ The 93rd? Why, that is my Cousin Vedel’s regiment! ” 

“You’ll recommend me!” exclaimed Judin, laughing. 

Why had this titled and rich young man, who enjoyed a 
sinecure at the Quai d’Orsay, enlisted ? Because it was chic, 
and because of a liking for action and adventure. And, then, 
he was tired of living a wild life. 

“ Pooh ! ” he concluded, “ it is only a little voyage on the 
Rhine.” 

D’Avol appeared. He came to offer his respects to Mme. 
le Precheur. He bowed low before Mme. de Guionic, to 
whom he was introduced. Judin and Langlade had left. The 
three blows announcing the raising of the curtain rang out, 
and D’Avol only remained a moment. He nervously clasped 
Du Breuil’s hand. 

“Alt revoir, my dear fellow! ” 

The door was closed again. 

“ I am happy to make his acquaintance,” said Mme. de 
Guionic. 

Du Breuil had often spoken to her of Jacques as his best 
friend. The curtain rose, and disclosed a room of a palace. 
Alphonse was imploring Elvire’s pardon, and, in a pathetic 
duo, obtained it. The scene was changed. Some young 
flower-girls danced on to the Place du Marche. M. le 
Precheur roused himself to find his opera-glasses. But the 
soldiers forcibly took La Muette away. Masaniello urged 
on the people. “ Marchons ! Aux armes ! Des flambeaux ! ” 


48 


THE DISASTER. 


Marie Sass at last appeared amidst the tumult of the last 
measures. 

A thrill passed through the house, and cries and cheers 
mingled in a single acclamation at the sight of her. She 
wore a white tunic and a peplum, upon which was a pattern 
of golden bees. She advanced in that splendid tragic man- 
ner of hers, holding in her hand the tricolour flag. She com- 
menced the flrst notes, “ Aliens, enfants de la patrie,” in the 
midst of indescribable emotion. 

The Duchesse de Mouchy rose to her feet, and part of the 
spectators imitated her example. Then an imperious voice — 
it was Emile de Girardin — cried : “ Everybody stand up ! ” 
The whole house obeyed. Each one felt possessed of a new, 
collective, and immense soul. Something strong and harsh, 
sudden, passed like a breath to the roots of their hairs, to the 
marrow of their bones. The orchestra accompanied the glori- 
ous hymn. Marie Sass sang the first strophe in a trembling 
voice, calling up red blood and the flash of swords. Tremen- 
dous applause burst forth. She recommenced in a higher, 
louder key, and the song increased in volume, filled the enor- 
mous building, passed through the walls, and seemed to 
spread over Paris in revolt and the country in arms. In its 
ardent words the roll of cannon mingled with the clamour of 
the tocsin. The feeling of the country in danger rose in 
every heart. The national anthem, for so long a time pro- 
hibited, appeared more beautiful, burnt with a new life and 
a flame eternal. 

“ Nous entrerons dans la carriere 
Quand nos aines n’y seront plus ! ” 

Emotion was at its height. People panted with enthusi- 
asm. Men and women became dizzy. The former laughed 
nervously and bit their moustaches, some shouted like mad- 
men; the latter tore their fans to pieces and waved their 
handkerchiefs. The actress with her tragic eyes and mouth 
was then, white under her golden bees, the very incarnation 
of imperial France. Her stature increased, and, borne up by 
the universal delirium, she prophesied victory. Jena, Aus- 
terlitz, Sebastopol, and Solferino blazed out! 

Du Breuil, transported, looked at his neighbours. Mme. 
le Precheur was leaning forward, completely carried away. 
Mme. de Gui’onic turned towards him an exalted face, down 


THE DISASTER. 


49 


which large tears were rolling. A frantic clamour drowned 
the finale. The whole house was traversed by one of those 
electric currents which galvanize a crowd and convert it into 
a single person. The people cried by a thousand mouths, in 
the midst of an irresistible outburst, the stamping of feet, 
arms raised on high, and faces drunk with joy: “Long live 
the Emperor! Long live France! To Berlin! ” 


CHAPTER V. 

The train moved away. 

“ Good-bye, father,” said Du Breuil. 

Motionless, he watched, with sinking heart, the last car- 
riages as they vanished in the distance. The old officer was 
at one of the carriage doors, nodding his gray head, and smil- 
ing with an air of constraint. A moment before he had man- 
fully embraced his son. The two men tried to assume an air 
of indifference, even of gaiety. Pierre promised to write. 
He hoped his mother would be reasonable; there was no 
reason for alarm; they were not separating for long. And 
soon he failed to distinguish the features of the old soldier — 
the smooth, shining forehead, the aquiline nose, the clear 
blue eyes. The luggage-van, the only thing visible, sped over 
the shining rails, and, like a black point, quickly disappeared. 

Then his feverish excitement subsided, and a sudden feel- 
ing of anguish caused a lump to rise in his throat, and over- 
whelmed his heart with bitterness. He realized with what deep 
affection he loved this father whom he saw so seldom, that 
mother hidden away in the old chateau. To think that he 
could not even kiss the sweet old lady on the forehead before 
leaving ! 

To leave for the war — the thought calmed his spirit. But 
his troubled sensations disappeared as quickly as they had 
come. To leave! What joy! what deliverance ! In the con- 
fused state of things that prevailed at headquarters, would 
he have to submit to another counter-order? Ho; the service- 
letter had already been signed. His father’s intervention and 
that of the Marquis de Champreux had been providential. 


5D 


THE DISASTER. 


At first, the Chamberlain had done nothing for him. For- 
tunately, Comte du Breuil, unable to understand his son’s 
inaction now that war had been declared, came to see him, 
and had also gone to Saint-Cloud to urge on the old beau. 
As it happened, a Council of Ministers was being held, and 
by great good luck the Count came across an old comrade, 
General Lebrun, Deputy-Commandant-General, who had set 
out for Metz on the 24th with Marshal Leboeuf,but had hastily 
returned. The mobilization of the army was far from being 
as well advanced as had been hoped. In consternation, the 
Marshal had despatched to the Minister of War ad interim 
his first Deputy-Commandant-General to insure prompt 
measures being taken. Comte du Breuil had asked his friend 
for an introduction to General Dejean. Thus, thanks to 
Lebrun’s support, and at the instance of the Marquis de 
Champreux, he succeeded in getting his son appointed to the 
general army staff. 

He met him at the entrance to the Ministry of War. 

“ You can pack your kit,” he said. That was all. 

Pierre fell upon his neck and embraced him. They went 
immediately to dine with one of their oldest acquaintances, 
the well-known Jules Thedenat. This man had been Pro- 
fessor of History at the College of France at the time of the 
Bevolution of 1848, but he had resigned after the coup d’etat ^ 
and since then had spent a long time in travelling. In his 
self-imposed exile he had met Victor Hugo in Brussels and 
Quinet in Switzerland. He lived in great seclusion. Pierre 
looked upon him as eccentric. 

Father Thedenat — that was the name he was given with 
sympathetic irreverence — was an old man with the face of an 
apostle: smooth-shaven, clear-cut, and full of energy. His 
snow-white hair, like that of a woman, was tied in a knot, 
and encircled his face. Comte du Breuil, who was out of all 
sympathy with his ideas, said laughingly : “ He’s a furious 
Bevolutionary.” And thus they talked on in their usual 
animated and confidential way in the poor little dining-room 
of that humble and admirable creature, Mme. Thedenat, 
whose canaries fiitted about in their cages overhead. 

The old officer, who could use his remaining arm with 
great skill, held in his hand a short briarwood pipe, which he 
filled and lighted without help. He sent out quick, short 
puffs of smoke. Thedenat, as he listened, fixed his quick. 


THE DISASTER. 


51 


bright-green eyes upon him. They talked of war and hoped- 
for alliances. There was no indication that the Austro- 
Hungarian army was to be mobilized. A letter received from 
Colonel de Brouille, military attache at Vienna (a letter of 
which General Lebrun was cognizant), removed all doubt as 
to the pacific intentions of Austria. Comte du Breuil re- 
lated the remark made at Saint-Cloud on the previous even- 
ing by his old companion-in-arms. The Due de Grammont, 
to whom the General communicated his apprehensions, said, 
tapping him lightly on the shoulder : “ And you think Colo- 
nel de Brouille knows all that is going on at Vienna ? Come, 
come, man! Have confidence.” 

Thedenat interrupted him impatiently. 

“Why should Austria help us? We cowardly abandoned 
her at Sadowa. Don’t tell me that it was Mexico that para- 
lyzed our army, because we only had twenty-eight thousand 
men there — not a man more. And Hanover, Hesse, Nassau, 
Frankfort, and Sleswick, which we have allowed those Prus- 
sian dogs to swallow up. No, no; we will fight alone, and 
serve us right! All sins meet with retribution — those of 
nations as well as those of men.” 

He continued with vivid and fiery words, in spite of the 
interruptions of the two Du Breuils, to attack the source 
itself of all this trouble, the Imperial Government, which he 
styled the personification of falsehood and rottenness, a paper 
empire, the work of gamblers and adventurers, based on luck 
and a fixed ideal, VEtoile. He portrayed the Emperor, full 
of bold and visionary dreams, but shrinking from decisive 
action, indecisive and vacillating, a man living in a state of 
somnambulism, in a dream of opium. How Bismarck had 
outplayed him, the inimitable actor, with his sullen face of, 
a soldier-diplomatist hidden under the visor of his pointed 
helmet, and his mask of swaggering bombast. As for the 
Empress, Thedenat, although his language was respectful, 
was nevertheless severe. He detested her Spanish and clerical 
tendencies, and the political domination which she exercised 
over the Emperor. “ Both of them gamblers, both foreigners.” 

He spoke with enthusiasm of Rochefort, and of Emile 
Ollivier with bitterness. He heaped scorn upon the shameful 
mockery of a Parliament; it was simply duping the people. 
The mass of the nation did not want war. For example, this 
famous garde-mobile could not be constituted. The deputies 


52 


THE DISASTER. 


had only secured their election by promising to vote for 
peace. The plebiscite was a fraud. 

He rose brusquely, and took from a drawer a picture 
which was being scattered broadcast by the million. At the 
bead of one column was the word, “ Ho,” underneath a pic- 
torial representation of pillage — the burning of cottages 
and harvests; at the top of another the word “Yes,” with a 
pleasing picture of peace — barns overflowing with plenty, 
and cellars full of wine. The peasant had voted “ Yes,” for 
peace, and they had given him war. 

Thedenat pointed out Prussia in arms, and all Germany 
at her back. In his rising excitement he expressed a fervent 
hope that a disaster was not near at hand. On that point, 
for instance, the Du Breuils differed profoundly from him. 
The father openly, the son silently, regarded him as a fa- 
natic. Mme. Thedenat, her knitting in her hands, was silent ; 
she listened with anxious suffering depicted on her drawn 
face. 

“ Pooh ! ” said the old officer ; “ you won’t discourage 
him” 

He pointed to the Major, who sat smiling increduously. 
Thedenat hurriedly brushed back his beautiful white hair, 
which had fallen upon his temples. He filled up the glasses 
with some precious marc; then, holding his glass at arm’s 
length, he said in a loud voice : 

“ Come, this time we will agree. To our native country.” 

Father Thedenat passionately loved the Fatherland. 

“ This,” thought Du Breuil, “ atones for all.” 

At the end of a fatiguing day, seated in his carriage, he 
could now laugh, buoyed up as he was by the excitement of 
departure. Escaping from his disordered apartment, where 
Frisch had heaped up a great pile of clothes and linen, he 
resolved to make his final visits. This evening he would say 
good-bye to Mme. de Gui’onic ; to-morrow morning he would 
go to Saint-Cloud and thank his uncle; then he would take 
the train at the Eastern station, and on the following night 
he would be at Metz. 

Was there anything that he had forgotten? If Frisch 
would only remember to get some nose-bags! He feared 
the effect of the heat on his two horses, Brutus and Cydalise, 
during the journey. With what a feeling of relief had he 
left the Ministry of War and shaken hands with Clemendot, 


THE DISASTER. 


53 


who groaned continually over the rheumatism in his joints, 
which kept him tied to the office ! He passed over in his 
mind the visits he had to make. First to his notary in the 
Rue de Provence. After going there he went to Devismes’. 

When he reached the boulevard, his cab had to stop on 
account of the ever-increasing tumult of the mob. There 
was the noise of trumpets and drums. An old Colonel was 
mounted on a little black Barbary horse, which impatiently 
pawed the ground; behind him was the mounted staff. A 
regiment of the line filed past. In the rear file sergeants 
and sergeant-majors were keeping step. All were veterans, 
decorated with medals of the Crimean and of the Italian 
campaigns. Soldiers with gray moustaches could be seen 
in the ranks. Du Breuil admired their bearing. From 
front to rear the guns moved up and down at the same 
parallel angle. Their legs opened and shut like big red 
scissors; left arms were swung hither and thither like pen- 
dulums ; every head was held bolt upright. An old sergeant 
cried to his platoon : “ Mark time ! ” 

Mechanically the men stamped their feet, and then, at a 
sudden command, set off again in a body. The people ap- 
plauded. A boy who had climbed into a tree lost his balance 
and fell among the spectators, without, however, doing him- 
self injury. A bare-headed woman, carried away with joy, 
was sitting astride the shoulders of a workman, in whose 
curly hair she buried her hands to prevent herself from 
falling. The heat was oppressive ; perspiration poured down 
the faces of the onlookers. Still the regiment filed past. 
Suddenly, when the 4th battalion was passing, a soldier fell 
like a lump of lead. The crowd pressed forward to raise 
him. An assistant medical officer got down from his horse 
and examined the prostrate body. 

Rupture of an aneurism. Nothing to be done.” 

He remounted his animal and took his place again behind 
the column. Some workmen carried the body towards a 
chemist’s. The regiment continued on its way; not a man 
had left the ranks; hardly a comrade had turned his head. 
The red trousers moved away with the same rhythmical and 
inexorable step — One, two ! One, two ! 

“ Pooh ! ” exclaimed a man with an evil countenance, 
looking at De Breuil, “ he won’t be the last.” 

The carriage moved on. Further on a drunken man was 


54 


THE DISASTER. 


sitting on a bench surrounded by idlers. His hat was 
crushed in and tilted over one eye. He made a motion that 
he wanted to speak. Salivating on to his beard, he vo- 
ciferated : 

“ Down with Charles X. ! ” 

He collapsed. The people laughed and pushed him 
about. A cuirassier, who was carrying a despatch, raised 
himself in his stirrups the better to see, and was very nearly 
thrown from his horse because of a dog which got between 
the animal’s legs. At Devismes’ Du Breuil was shown some 
revolvers of a new pattern, and purchased a perfected one. 
When leaving he thought of buying some maps of the Rhine 
country, but he asked himself if he wouldn’t find as many 
as he wanted at Metz. Why burden himself? He wanted a 
field-glass, however, so he purchased one. He almost forgot 
gloves. 

“ Cabman, Rue de Richelieu.” 

He patronized a glove-shop, the proprietress of which 
was well-known for her amiability towards ofiicers. She had 
in her employment a number of smart shop-girls. With 
many glances and little grimaces they pressed forward to 
serve Du Breuil, and one of them, a girl with auburn hair, 
black eyes, and a milky-white complexion, took his measure. 
The powder upon her face gave her such a sweet, fresh 
smell. Blushing, she tried him on a pair of gloves. While 
her companions were taking down boxes, they nudged her 
with their elbows, laughing to themselves. Du Breuil chose 
half a dozen pairs of strong buckskin gloves which would be 
soft to the reins and to a sword-handle. He also bought 
ten white pairs for use on the field of battle. He was flat- 
tered by the smile of the pretty auburn-haired girl; she 
gave herself up to him in a look. He experienced a small 
and ridiculously vain pleasure, which passed away, however, 
outside, with the smoke of his cigarette. 

Compliments were showered upon Du Breuil at his club. 
He shook hands with more than fifty comrades. Baron 
Lapoigne spoke a few warm, friendly words to him. But 
when the first moment of curiosity was over, everybody 
went about his own little business, recommencing a game 
at cards which had been interrupted, or taking up a news- 
paper which had been laid down. Pierre remained in the 
clutches of old General de Castree, who since 1857 had re- 


THE DISASTER. 


55 


tired from the aririy. When eighteen years of age the Gen- 
eral had gone through the French campaign. He had been 
a corporal at Champaubert, a Second Lieutenant at Water- 
loo, and his recollections of the imperial epopee were prolix 
in the extreme : the old hero shot forth a perfect torrent of 
words. Du Breuil had to put up with his eloquence until 
dinner-time. 

His attention was occupied by several people, including 
Lapoigne and big Peyrode. He ate but little. Already his 
existence of the previous day seemed to him afar off; his 
neighbours, companions of many a fete, partners at play, 
seemed to him to have new faces to which he was indifferent. 
Even the toast which Peyrode energetically proposed, amid 
discreet applause, annoyed him. He drank his coffee with- 
out taking any pleasure in doing so, and then perceived, 
when his cigar was smoked, that people around him were in 
conversation. Nine o’clock already! Baron Lapoigne was 
keeping the bank. Pierre, standing up, staked his money on 
the left, and won several times in succession. When it 
came to his turn to be banker, he lost all his winnings, and 
£16 in addition. It was half-past nine o’clock. Mme. de 
Guionic was awaiting him. He left the club without saying 
good-bye to anybody. 

What vanity all this was! The war, to which he felt 
drawn as towards a precipice, again occupied his thoughts. 
Did these petty emotions of gambling, the pleasures of so- 
ciety, constitute life ? At the proper hour war claimed both 
body and soul, and what an intense pleasure there was in the 
unforeseen and in dangers ! The mask of propriety fell, and 
there stepped forth the primitive man struggling with craft, 
audacity and despair against his equals. He measured his 
strength with the elements and with destiny. Du Breuil re- 
called the terrible frenzies which he had experienced when 
his battery was destroying Magenta. Wounded, pale, clench- 
ing his teeth, the sight of his own blood had raised him up 
to so strong a feeling that he had wished to die that very 
instant, standing upright, under the sun. The heaps of 
bodies and the horror of the battle-field alone had called him 
to his senses. How pale was Deresse, his chief, and yet so 
admirably cool! With sorrowful gravity he saluted the 
wounded. 

The carriage passed quickly towards Mme. de Gui'onic’s. 

5 


56 


THE DISASTER. 


house, but never had he felt so far from her. He called up 
to mind the brief passions of the soldiers of the First Em- 
pire. In the interval between two battles they clasped their 
ladies in their arms. It was a rude period ! Had they time 
even to know they were living? Ah, those who then pressed 
to their breast some loved one must have experienced in- 
tense and vivid happiness! Love and death were entwined 
in a smile. How he himself would have relished the exal- 
tation of a similar departure ! Pooh ! . . . would he ever 
meet with absolute love, the love in which two souls mingled 
and made themselves one? Marriage dismayed him, not- 
withstanding the fine chances which had been held out to 
him. He could not resign himself to simply an associa- 
tion of interests ; he thought with uneasiness of the 
case of Mme. de Guionic, so tender and so proud. Poor 
friend ! 

The night was heavy. In spite of the lateness of the 
hour, there were a large number of people on the Place de la 
Concorde. Some military caissons were passing with a 
low, rumbling noise before the Corps Legislatif. Horses 
and men had the appearance of being asleep. There were 
two mitrailleuses, their broad and short gun-barrels encased 
in leather coverings. 

The carriage stopped in the Rue de Crenelle before the 
porch of a house of sombre appearance. At the bottom of 
the courtyard there filtered through the blinds the light of 
the lamps of Mme. de Guionic’s boudoir. She awaited him 
with anxiety. Du Breuil was touched by her pallor and the 
brightness of her eyes. He kissed her hand and sat down. 
The tone of the conversation was at first so natural that one 
would have thought he was setting out on the morrow upon 
some excursion. Ordinarily, the usages of society intro- 
duced something artificial into their sincerity. She only 
recovered herself little by little upon every fresh meeting. 
It was necessary for her to come under the fire of his eyes, 
and to hear vibrate the deeper tone of his voice. And espe- 
cially at Mme. de Guionic’s how great was his power! 

“You will be at Metz to-morrow night,” she said. 

“ And you,” he replied, “ will be at Lord Ramsey’s ball ? ” 

“ Yes, if Mme. Sutton comes for me.” 

“ I shall think of you. What will be the colour of your 
dress ? ” 


THE DISASTER. 


57 


She would wear a skirt of gray and pink changeable silk, 
with bows of pearls and a ruby velvet bodice. 

“ You will resemble one of Rubens’ princesses.” 

What they were saying appeared to him poor and incom- 
plete. Why was it so difficult to express his true thought? 
Kneeling before her he would have liked to have murmured 
to her : “ Dear friend, my dear friend, who have done me the 
honour to love me, I do not bring you a commonplace fare- 
well! I am too conscious of my powerlessness to show my 
gratitude towards you — a gratitude which, however, is 
infinite. Your charming form has haunted my dreams and 
sleepless nights for years and years. In it I have adored 
the chaste and exquisite mistress which you have consented 
to become. You have, however, especially been a friend. 
. . . So inconstant and wretched is the heart of man! If I 
do not know how to love you better, at least, believe that 
recollection of you will sweeten the best years of my life. 
To forget you is impossible. I shall regret you the more for 
having lost you.” 

He had an indistinct feeling that upon his return he 
would not find her as she was then, he would not find them- 
selves as they were at that supreme minute. 

“You will be present at the Emperor’s departure?” he 
asked. 

“ Ko,” she replied. “ I dislike everything which smacks 
of curiosity and untimely zeal.” 

He looked at her. Her rose-leaf, transparent eyelids 
drooped; her nostrils palpitated; her mouth opened like a 
living fruit. A subtle fire — her very soul, sorrowful and 
passionate — appeared in her face. 

De Breuil rose suddenly, and held towards her an en- 
velope. She looked at it, but did not take it. 

“ Your letters,” he said. She did not at once understand 
the instinct of delicacy and prudence which had prompted 
him. “ I bring them back to you, so that you may burn 
them,” he added, lowering his voice. 

She blushed. Her modesty, equalling her tenderness, 
was great and sensible. Her heart was troubled by every- 
thing which these letters called up. It seemed to her that 
by destroying them she would give material sanction to 
their separation, would consecrate the past. She felt that 
the present was so precarious and unstable, and to her also 


68 


THE DISASTER. 


it was tinged with melancholy. She almost had the feeling 
of having committed a fault, or, worse still, an error, 
because she could not hide from herself the fact that Pierre 
loved her less than she loved him. 

She did not take the letters, but merely said: “Not 
here.” 

She passed into her bedroom. It was the second time 
that he had entered. He felt troubled. She lit a candle 
which she used when sealing her letters. 

“ Give them to me,” she said. 

Then she set fire to the bundle and threw it into the fire- 
place. Little portions of them sprang out, burning, on to 
the carpet. She placed her foot upon them, and her skin 
appeared through her white stocking. She scattered the 
cinders with the point of her small shoe. It was as if they 
had burnt their love. 

They now looked at each other fixedly, almost with hard 
gravity, and one would have said they had suddenly become 
strangers. Anguish was mingled with their silence, and 
the pendulum of the Saxony clock, with its loud tic-tac, pro- 
longed the hopeless passing of life, and seemed to say: 
“ Pa-st ! pa-st ! pa-st ! ” 

“Farewell, then,” said He Breuil. 

“Farewell,” she repeated. 

They tried to smile, but their smiles were such as those 
with which sick people are imposed upon. He opened his 
arms, and Mme. de Gui’onic threw herself towards him. 
Clasping her to him, he buried his lips in her hair. She it 
was who first gently repulsed him. There was an expression 
of suffering on her face. Little by little, however, as he 
clasped her hands her features relaxed, and there came into 
her beautiful eyes a look of manly valor. 

“ God protect you ! ” she said. 

There was the noise of something light which fell to the 
ground and broke. Du Breuil, grazing against a small table, 
had upset a jewel tray. The opal bracelet had fallen to the 
ground. 

“ Ah ! ” she exclaimed, with an expression of sorrow. 

He rushed forward to pick it up. One of the milky 
stones had become detached, by the shock, from its setting. 

“ It is broken,” he said. “ How clumsy I am ! ” With- 
out knowing why, he added : “ This opal will be of no use to 


THE DISASTER. 


59 


you any more. Give it to me in remembrance of this 
minute. It shall never leave me.” 

“ You know very well,” she said, “ that the opal brings 
misfortune.” 

“ On the contrary, happiness,” he replied, with an ar- 
dour which surprised even himself. He added : “ I beg of 
you.” 

She consented. 

Their farewell was constrained. Was this the effect of 
the sorcery of the opal, or, rather, the feeling of that which 
they wished to say, which they had not said, which they 
would never say? However, their hands, joined for the last 
time, had a difficulty in unclasping. 

“Farewell!” exclaimed Mme. de Guionic abruptly. 

Then it was that he left. 

Outside, he painfully admitted that he felt as though a 
burden had been taken from his shoulders. 

He rose at daybreak, classified his papers, and saw that 
his toilet-case was in order. At seven o’clock he left for 
Saint-Cloud. The surroundings of the palace were crowded 
with people ; the large^courtyard was encumbered with 
breaks and omnibuses waiting for the servants; coachmen 
and livery-servants rushed hither and thither. General offi- 
cers of the staff, who were to accompany His Majesty, the 
Ministers, and the faithful of the court, could be seen arriv- 
ing. 

De Breuil had great difficulty in finding the Marquis de 
Champreux, who, although it did not come within his duties, 
was here, there, and everywhere in the forced disorder and 
agitation. A* tall lackey had seen him pass ; a butler affirmed 
that he was there a few minutes before. At last Du Breuil 
found him in an office, behind a partition, having a cup of 
chocolate. 

“ Ah, friend ! ” he exclaimed ; “ you have no idea what a 
life I am having.” 

He listened without paying much attention, replied in the 
same way, and, at bottom hostile to the war which was turn- 
ing men and things upside down, always returned to the sub- 
ject of the departure, the importance of which deranged his 
habits. He never lost a mouthful, but dipped large pieces of 
brioche into his chocolate, and then, slowly and steadily, 
swallowed them. He had the air of carrying out one of the 


60 


THE DISASTER. 


important duties of his rank, just as upon days of ceremony, 
when dressed in his scarlet, gold-embroidered dress-coat, he 
related the latest news of the palace; that of Paris did not 
interest him. 

The Chamberlain wiped his lips. An orderly officer ran 
past. 

“Farewell, friend; I will see you after the Emperor’s 
departure. You are coming to the station?” 

In the courtyard Du Breuil found Lacoste, who was in 
full-dress uniform. Two platoons of Lancers of the Guard 
were on picket. 

“ I saw you pass just now,” said the Captain. 

He was flushed over the cheek-bones, his eyes sparkled, 
and his hand was burning. In reply to Du Breuil’s anxious 
inquiry, he said: 

“ A little enervated. I can’t sleep. Everybody’s going. 
Our regiment has set off, and here the Emperor is going to 
leave us. When do you rejoin your battalion?” 

Upon learning that Du Breuil set off that very day he 
sighed. 

“ I hope that at last our turn is coming. Those Badois 
scoundrels who have blown up the Kehl bridge! . . . The 
Emperor’s proclamation is mild; I should have liked some- 
thing with more Are in it. But he is doing well to take his 
son with him.” 

They had reached the private gardens. While breaks 
and family omnibuses were stationed in the Allee de la Car- 
riere, imperial livery carriages and large open vis-a-vis were 
drawn up before the small apartments of the palace. Du 
Breuil picked out well-known faces — J ousset-Gournal, 
whose ubiquity was prodigious, and the publicist Eavergues, 
very much surrounded by people. General Jaillant, who was 
accompanying the Emperor, was talking in the midst of a 
group of general officers. Mme. d’Avilar and Mme. Lang- 
lade had not missed the opportunity to pay their court ; they 
were laughing with some old gentlemen with waxed impe- 
rials and red rosettes, they talked gradually louder and 
louder; then, recollecting the occasion, their faces became 
composed, and they spoke in a low tone. 

The face of everybody was animated by the unique 
thought of the appearance of the Sovereigns. M. Jousset- 
Gournal, with sanctimonious smile ^and ears on the alert ; 


THE DISASTER. 


61 


Jaillant, with his eagle eye; and the zealous Mme. d’Avilar, 
watched the window-doors of the saloon through which their 
Majesties were to pass. . . . How many were there who 
thought of the Emperor’s departure after he had passed the 
gates? How many who followed him in heart? And how 
many would turn upon their heels, after the farewell had 
been uttered, only to think of themselves? ... Was it 
caused by the wan daylight under the low sky ? He Breuil 
noticed on nearly everybody’s face a tired and heavy ex- 
pression. High dignitaries, senators, and deputies appeared 
to be extinguished under the same satiated and fatigued 
mask. Comte Duclos alone retained his lordliness. Ad- 
miral La Veronnech was more downcast than ever. Under 
the lights these people had seemed to him to be younger, 
fuller of life. He doubted if the Empire was growing old. 
He was soon smiling and calmed, however, when he saw the 
comings and goings of the Aides-de-camp, with their quick 
gestures and martial air. The calm and authority of the 
Generals in campaign dress filled him with great confidence, 
with instinctive respect. Lacoste’s energetic face, full of 
devotion and will power gave him pleasure. He thought of 
the redoubtable force which he had seen the other day on 
the threshold of the soldiers’ dormitory at the barracks, and 
his heart was borne up by a great hope. 

There was a movement of attention, and all eyes were 
directed to the Salon des Vernet at the end of the terrace. 
The Emperor, Empress, and Prince Imperial appeared. 
The Emperor wore the uniform of General-in-Chief, with 
crosses and medals. He was, as usual, grave, and he ap- 
peared to be suffering and extremely dejected. He searched 
for someone around him. De Breuil momentarily met his 
indefinable look. An officer of the suite called for General 
Jaillant, to whom His Majesty spoke a few words. The 
Empress had never had a finer air, but her anguish was ap- 
parent. A mother’s anxiety was the cause, it was supposed, 
of her nervousness. The Prince Imperial, standing at her 
side, his eyes red, his complexion animated, and a resolute 
look upon his face, looked at her with charming tenderness. 
He was wearing a uniform of a Grenadier of the Guard, a 
field-glass slung over his shoulder intersecting his tunic of 
a Second Lieutenant. 

There was a great movement of carriages. The horses 


62 


THE DISASTER. 


of the imperial equipage pawed the ground. Their Maj- 
esties led the way in an open carriage, and were followed by 
their household. Du Breuil, still accompanied by Lacoste, 
was with the Marquis de Champreux in one of the large 
vis-a-vis. Some Ministers and the high personnel of the 
palace got into the breaks and the omnibuses in the Alice 
de la Carriere. Those who could not find seats set out on 
foot. The cortege of carriages entered the main avenues 
under the shadow of the trees. Du Breuil thought of his 
own departure in the afternoon, and felt inspired with a 
manly joy. He experienced an inexpressible relief at the 
idea of being on the eve of entering into action. 

Spectators were already in waiting near the small rail- 
way-station, which was situated on a branch of the circular 
railway which entered the park. A thatched kiosk, orna- 
mented with bronze lamps, served as a shelter. Everybody 
left the carriages. The Sovereigns stood on the platform 
surrounded by those on duty. Then the defile commenced. 
Those who were leaving paid homage to the Regent; the 
Emperor received the farewells of his Ministers; the Prince 
Imperial, very excited, went from one to the other. His 
pride got the better of his sorrow. His sword kept striking 
against his legs. 

Du Breuil divided his attention between the various 
groups and the train drawn up on the line. The train con- 
sisted of a dozen carriages, communicating by an interior 
passage, painted dark-green, with the exception of the car- 
riage-terrace, which was of polished iron. Each of the 
panels was decorated with a gilded H, surmounted by the 
imperial crown. He admired the Beauvais tapestries, which 
could be seen through the saloon doorways. The bedroom — 
a voice remarked behind him — was lacking, but two ordinary 
carriages had been added in view of the numerous suite. 

The Emperor gave the signal to get into the train. 
There was a confused uproar around the carriages of people 
rushing hither and thither. When he saw his staff he said, 
smiling : 

“ It is a very army corps.” 

The Empress was standing near the carriage-terrace, 
agitated and fevered. 

It was a solemn moment. Dead silence reigned for a 
minute. Finally the whistle blew and the train moved off. 


THE DISASTER. 


63 


“ Do your duty, Louis ! ” exclaimed the Empress, looking 
tenderly at her son. 

More than one was moved by the scene. All heads were 
uncovered. There was a general cry of Long live the 
Emperor ! ” 

Du Breuil, with burning cheeks and full of hope, as 
though the first battle had been won, felt his soul go out to- 
wards Napoleon. The Emperor was leaning on the balus- 
trade, his dull eyes fixed upon the Empress with a tender 
and sad expression. He remained there, motionless, until 
the train was on a level with the gateway which opened on 
to the main line. He then moved to the other side to salute 
the Montretout inhabitants who were cheering him. 

Du Breuil, like everybody present, watched with agita- 
tion the train which, with its cortege of Generals, with the 
Emperor and his son, was disappearing in the full light, 
carrying towards the unknown the very destiny of the coun- 
try, the fortune of France. 


PAET 11. 


CHAPTEK I. 

“ Pass the turkey to the doctor,” said M. Bersheim. 
“ There isn’t his equal for carving.” 

Everyone looked at M. Sohier, the surgeon of the Metz 
Military Hospital. He stuffed a corner of his napkin into 
the collar of his coat and took the large carving-knife in his 
hand. A fair-complexioned servant, with rosy cheeks, under 
the supervision of old Lisbeth, who had immediately recog- 
nized Du Breuil, received, with outstretched arms, the dish 
on which lay the large turkey, stuffed with truffles and 
browned to a nicety. M. Bersheim, with a joviality which 
accorded well with his rosy face, encircled by a gray beard, 
announced, with some little pride : 

“ She weighs fifteen pounds. General. The queen of my 
poultry-yard, brought to me yesterday from Noisseville by 
my tenant.” 

General Boisjol, who was in the act of drinking a glass 
of wine, surveyed the bird with the air of a connoisseur. 
He resembled an old yellow wolf, with his large nose, short 
hair, and fierce looks. 

“Now, just look!” exclaimed M. Bersheim enthusi- 
astically. 

The masterly skill with which M. Sohier carved was in- 
deed worthy of admiration. The doctor smiled as he sepa- 
rated the joints; the pieces fell apparently of their own ac- 
cord, and arranged themselves, as if by enchantment, around 
the dish. The mathematical precision of the carver dis- 
quieted Boisjol, and he expressed the thoughts of all by ex- 
claiming : 

“ The devil 1 I shouldn’t like to be under the doctor’s 
knife.” 


64 


THE DISASTER. 


65 


M. Sohier grinned with satisfaction. He had a high idea 
of surgery in general and of his own talents as an opera- 
tor in particular. There was nothing like the surgeon’s 
knife! At the hospital he was called “Coupe toujours” 
(always cutting). His manners were rough, but he was 
a good-hearted fellow. A close-shaven man with a skin 
like parchment and bright eyes, he carried his age remark- 
ably well. 

Boisjol continued in the same strain: 

“ You won’t be without work, doctor.” 

M. Sohier replied: 

“ The hospital is filling up. Nothing but simple accidents, 
it’s true. They just brought to me an artilleryman who had 
had his foot smashed by a caisson. There are plenty of 
cases of dysentery, but no interesting ones yet.” 

“ You must have patience,” remarked Du Breuil. 

Boisjol eyed him askance. He was nettled by Du 
Breuil’s youth and his position on the staff. The General, 
proud of serving in the Guard, and as an old African Zouave 
who had gained his rank by regular promotion, despised 
educated officers. Du Breuil emptied his glass. The wine 
of the district, which they were drinking, was warm, dry, and 
had a strong aroma. The air was filled with the odour of 
truffles. The candelabra, which fianked each side of the 
table, cast a vivid glow upon the dark panels and the carved 
cupboards. The Major found everything, both men and 
things, just as he had left it fifteen years before. There was 
the same air of ease and comfort, the same family intimacy. 

• A garland of roses, as of yore, adorned the table, and one 
of the four preserve-dishes contained preserved mirabelle 
plums. Mme. Bersheim, her eyes still as limpid as ever, 
listened to Father Desroques with a pleasant smile. The 
priest was one of the superiors of Saint-Clement’s, an ac- 
complished man of the world, with a handsome face, full of 
fire and energy. He was saying: 

“ It is said that the soldiers are irreligious ; but every- 
where our Fathers are received with the most becoming re- 
spect; they hear their confessions, and the men complain 
that they have not a sufficient number of chaplains. If we 
cannot serve them in that capacity, the school will at least 
have the honour of being transformed into an ambulance. 
Our pupils have recently been occupying their time in mak- 


66 


THE DISASTER. 


ing lint. As soon as they are gone, the house will be made 
ready to receive the wounded.” 

Old Lisbeth brought him a plate of spinach without any 
meat, which had been specially prepared for him on account 
of the day being Friday. 

Grandmother Sophia nodded her head. She had not 
aged ; she was still the same erect woman, carrying high that 
serene head upon which was the bonnet d coques. She said 
to the Father: 

“We had news this morning from Andre and Maurice, 
and they are getting along well.” 

“ Two of our best pupils,” replied Father Desroques. 
“ They will do credit, I am sure, both to Saint-Clement and 
to the army.” 

Du Breuil looked at Anine. She smiled proudly as she 
heard her brothers mentioned. Anine was no longer the 
frail little girl of old; her blue eyes and beautiful golden 
hair endowed her with a pensive beauty, a sedate charm. 
Silent, given to reflection, full of ggod sense withal, with 
pure and lofty ideas in her soul, she was indeed a child of 
Lorraine, a true daughter of Metz. A virginal grace set ofl 
her three-and-twenty years. 

“ Alas ! my big boys,” sighed Mme. Bersheim. 

She had need for all her Christian fortitude, for the 
peril her sons were running tortured her. Andre, a Lieuten- 
ant of Cuirassiers in the Duhesme division, and Maurice, a 
Sergeant-Major of Zouaves in the Ducrot division, had 
written from Strasburg, where Marshal MacMahon had juSt 
arrived. 

“ MacMahon — there’s the man for you ! ” cried Bersheim. 
“ As trusty as his sword. He’ll sweep the ground for us.” 

Du Breuil, who had arrived the night before, had com- 
menced his duties, the same day at headquarters. He was 
appointed to the manoeuvre department, under the orders of 
Colonel Laune. The Emperor had just forbidden MacMahon 
to make any move for a week. Du Breuil had copied the 
order. He confined himself to saying in reply that the 
Marshal’s four divisions had just completed their organiza- 
tion. What he did not express was the discontent which he 
felt after working for an hour in the small room of the Hotel 
de I’Europe, in the midst of unheard-of confusion and dis- 
order. There were assembled there thirty officers, scribbling. 


THE DISASTER. 


67 


laughing, chattering, amidst the noise of doors constantly 
opening and shutting, and the incessant to-and-fro movement 
of officers. He again noticed the delays and disarray in con- 
centrating the army, the incapacity of the administrative de- 
partments, the feebleness of the effective forces, and the 
empty magazines. But this time, right in front of the ene- 
my, it was indeed a serious matter. 

“ There’s nothing to be done but to push forward,” said 
the optimistic Bersheim. “ But the interference of the 
Emperor in matters pertaining to the high command alarms 
me. All these changes and delays are of no avail. They say 
that Bazaine is hurt at being reduced to the command of 
a simple corps.” 

“ Well, and what about the 2nd, the 4th, and the 5th 
Army Corps?” asked Boisjol. “The Marshal superintend- 
ed their formation up to the Commandant-General’s ar- 
rival. . . .” 

“ Doubtless,” continued M. Bersheim, “ only you will 
admit that he didn’t stay here for long. . . . His sudden de- 
parture was that of one discontented.” 

“ He returned to salute the Emperor,” remarked Mme. 
Bersheim. 

Du Breuil made himself acquainted with the reception 
accorded the Sovereign. He recollected that Metz had 
voted in the negative at the time of the plebescite. Bers- 
heim gave an account of the arrival. Dark, thick-set detec- 
tives of Southern and Corsician types had been seen prowl- 
ing about the Prefecture — the surroundings of which were 
strewn with sand — from five o’clock. At a quarter to seven 
the cortege had passed through the gate of the Hue Serpe- 
noise, which was also strewn with sand, a fine rain having 
made the pavements slippery. The reception was indiffer- 
ent and lacking in enthusiasm. For the past week the town 
had been decorated with flags, and not one flag had been 
added to the windows. A picket of one hundred Guards pre- 
ceded the carriages, in the first of which was seated the 
Emperor, visibly broke down. His head had fallen upon his 
breast, and his long hair extended from under his kepi down 
to the collar of his coat. In the second carriage, by the 
side of the impassive Prince Mapoleon, was the Prince Im- 
perial, saluting and smiling. 

“ I heard a pleasant murmur,” said M. Bersheim, “ ^ One 


C8 


THE DISASTER. 


of them is too young, and the other is too old.’ ” He added : 
“ Bazaine, alone in an open caleche followed in the midst 
of the cortege of Generals, equerries, and outriders. He 
was very pale, his eyes were swollen, there were wrinkles 
upon his face, and he had a careworn and tired look. I 
must confess he didn’t produce upon me a very excellent 
impression. There was something impenetrable in his face 
— the expression of a man who is thinking of himself.” 

“ An ambitious man,” added the doctor. “ His conduct 
in Mexico showed it.” 

“It’s possible,” said Boisjol. “I don’t know anything 
about it, but he’s as brave as they make ’em. I knew him in 
Italy.” 

Somebody came and told M. Sohier that an infirmary 
attendant was waiting to see him. He left the table, and 
did not return. Lisbeth said he went off in a furious state. 
An officer had just put a bullet in his head. 

“ Such misfortunes must happily’ be rare,” said Mme. 
Bersheim, moved to pity. 

Boisjol, again helping himself to asparagus, replied: 

“ It is true that the officer has a higher conception of 
duty than the common soldier, but suicides among the rank 
and file are common. More than one blow out their brains 
when a comrade, worn out by fatigue, .marching continually 
under the sun, sets them the example. Examples came 
under my notice in Africa.” 

A look of sadness came into the ardent face of Father 
Desroques. 

“ It is terrible ! ” sighed a lady, Mme. Le Martrois, who 
up to the present had said nothing. Her eyes were centred 
upon her son Gustave, a tall, awkward, bearded youth in 
spectacles. 

“ The reason for that,” said the General philosophically, 
“ is that the soldier’s equipment when campaigning is too 
heavy.” 

“ Speaking of equipments,” resumed M. Dumaine, a stout 
old gentleman of independent means, with a fresh complex- 
ion, benevolent eyes and smile, “ the scene at the railway- 
station at the present time is unbelievable. Never have I 
seen so many kits and luggage. The wholly inadequate 
staff are at their wits’ end, the warehouses are obstructed, 
and the confusion increases daily. Everybody is giving 


THE DISASTER. 


orders. The company, notwithstanding its willinginess, 
doesn’t know to whom to listen.” 

“ Nothing is astonishing with such an organization,” ex- 
plained M. Bersheim. 

Regiments had arrived pell-mell from the very first. The 
fioating mass of isolated soldiers had been placed on the 
railways. The disorder had commenced at the landing- 
place, owing to the foreseen division of the troops. The 
trains were packed. Luggage remained unclaimed. At the 
same time there fiowed in the consignments of materiel and 
rations, which the territorial commissariat unfortunately 
had had no orders to receive. As to the divisionary commis- 
sariat attached to the army corps, and in ignorance as to 
whether the army would break the journey at Metz or 
not, it had not dared to empty the trucks which, in long 
files, were encumbering the railway sidings. The company’s 
employes passed their time in receiving the consignments, 
transmitting them to the commissariat, to the artillery, to 
the engineers, and to the arsenal. Forthwith coffee had to 
be delivered to one, cartridges to another, and flour to a 
third. Very often drays carried goods to a great distance — 
goods which, after being unloaded, were placed on the drays 
again, and taken back to the trucks, whence they were again 
transported. Trains still continued to arrive, however, from 
the four corners of France, and in the end the company were 
driven to piling the goods on the platform. 

Mme. Le Martrois confided to Father Desroques that she 
had seen the Prince Imperial during the morning. He was 
on horseback, and had a numerous military suite. Some 
boys ran behind and cheered. Handfuls of half-pence were 
thrown to them. 

Gustave Le Martrois said timidly: 

“ I saw two German dragoons taken to the Hotel de Metz, 
where the chief Provost holds his court. They looked very 
cunning, and they held themselves as stiff as stakes in their 
sfiort coats.” 

“ I saw a spy, disguised as a woman, being led away,” said 
M. Humaine. “ The crowd was hooting him. It appears 
the number of spies the Prussians employ is incredible.” 

“Yes,” said Hu Breuil; “that department is perfectly 
organized with them.” 

On the other hand, we knew nothing precisely. The 


TO 


THE DISASTER. 


collecting of troops at Mayence, Winden, Maxau, and Carls- 
rulie was reported; but the composition of the German 
armies and their plans remained unknown. . . . Notwith- 
standing the prescriptions of the Commandant-General, who 
had ordered patrols, reconnoitring parties, and cavalry de- 
viations, the forces had not come into collision. We were 
facing an enemy which, though present, remained invisible. 
Impatience and doubt were kept alive by a few unimportant 
skirmishes, the capture of some Uhlans, and shots fired by 
outposts. 

“ All the same,” said M. Bersheim returning to his idea, 
which, at heart, was everybody else’s, “ why don’t they move ? 
I’m not a soldier, but ii seems to me that expectation is 
contrary to the French temperament. It is true a Colonel of 
the staff told me they had no biscuit to take with them. 
Lebceuf telegraphed to Paris yesterday to send some here 
and to Strasburg; but, hang it all! there is bread and corn 
in Germany. What are they waiting for ? ” 

Boisjol did not reply. He had a feeling that his ad- 
venturous courage of an old African campaigner was slight- 
ed; he grumbled at being kept waiting, sword in hand. 
When people declared war, it meant they were ready, and 
when they were ready it was time to march. 

After a special kind of plum-tart, for which the house- 
hold was famed, dessert was concluded. Lisbeth, in accord- 
ance with custom, placed the liqueur-case on the table, 
and M. Bersheim opened it. The square glass bottles, 
ornamented with gold, the colour of topaz, ruby, and emerald, 
were half full of brandy, curagao, creme d’angelique, and a 
fourth with old Black Forest kirsch, limpid as water, ardent 
as fire. 

“ I can recommend it,” said M. Bersheim. 

Du Breuil accepted a glass. Undoubtedly nothing had 
changed. The old residence retained its air of calm happi- 
ness. In the carved case of the tall kitchen clock the pendu- 
lum, a disc of copper, marked time with a regular, pulse-like 
beat, swinging backwards and forwards, alternately revealing 
and hiding from view the motto in black enamel : “ Omnes 
vulnerant, ultima necat.” Du Breuil would have a difficulty 
soon in leaving this peaceful place. Mme. Bersheim’s smile 
and Anine’s clear look went straight to his heart. He re- 
membered this tall young lady when she was a child in short 


THE DISASTER. 


71 


dresses, and even then she had a serious forehead. She loved 
to read pretty stories in picture-books, and D’Avol used to 
comment on them with much animation and comic invention. 
Once more he saw before him the two brothers — the robust 
Andre and the somewhat pale Maurice — the one rowdy, undis- 
ciplined, the other tactiturn and somewhat sly. ... As they 
were passing into the drawing-room the clock struck. It had 
a grave, deep, and solemn note, which used to make D’Avol 
laugh when it inflexibly hammered out the hour for return- 
ing to the school. One would have sworn, he used to affirm, 
that it was the voice of the professor of military art and of 
geodesy. Good old Jacques! As M. Bersheim had re- 
marked, before sitting down to table, he would miss being 
there that evening. He had arrived two days before, and 
was bivouacking at the Polygone ; he had been prevented by 
his duties from attending the gathering. Bersheim had 
hardly shaken him by the hand. His visit to the Guards’ 
camp had filled him with enthusiasm. 

“ What soldiers I ” he exclaimed. “ And Bourbaki, what 
a leader ! Come, come 1 I’ve good hope. What, friend, go- 
ing already ? ” 

Du Breuil excused himself on the ground of pressing 
work. General Boisjol sharply nodded his head. He 
wholly blamed the staff for the slowness and disorder of the 
movements; and when the door had closed behind the Major, 
he explained matters with bitterness. 

Du Breuil crossed the courtyard, and passed through the 
porch with fluted columns, still surmounted by their stone 
balls overgrown with green. He imagined he had gone back 
fifteen years, when he was a pupil Second Lieutenant, with 
hardly a shadow of a moustache upon his lip. ... No more 
general quarters, no more work, and no war ahead. Just 
as though he were going to enter the Ecole d’ Application, he 
passed along the Rue aux Ours. It was a singular sensation 
to find himself, almost the same person, at the point from 
which he had set out. He seemed to know every gable and 
black corner — everything, down to the unequal quartz pav- 
ing-stones, which under his heel revived a familiar contact. 
Notwithstanding the dark lane, Metz rose up in all its an- 
tique grace of a provincial town, with its buildings painted 
yellow ochre; the slightly overhanging mud roofs of the 
houses; its bridges, its squares, its quincunx; and, dominat- 
6 


Y2 


THE DISASTER. 


ing the stretch of housetops, the mighty pile of the cathedral, 
like a shepherd watching over his sheep. Parcelled out by 
the lusty waters of the Seille and the Moselle, full of bar- 
racks, shops, arsenals, and schools, he saw once more the old 
military town in its entirety, narrowly enclosed in its belt 
of fortifications and grassy dykes. Was Metz la Pucellc 
sufiiciently proud of this corset with lace of stone? She 
defied all attack, and the countryside was reached only by 
way of mistrustful drawbridges and narrow prison doors. 

He passed before the school where two of the best years 
of his youth had been spent. Several drunken troopers 
passed with stumbling step and a great clanking of swords. 
At the corner of the Rue de la Garde the sobbing of a child 
behind a window made him turn his head. Near the Palais 
de Justice a patrol passed him. A fresher air blew upon his 
face. He skirted the Esplanade. . . . Formerly so calm at 
the hour when the petite cloche was going to be sounded, it 
was now animated in the feeble light from the gas-lamps, 
which were placed at intervals under the trees, by the to- 
and-fro motion of shadows. Other soldiers, worn out by 
fatigue, were sleeping on the ground, with their heads upon 
their knapsacks; a white cat darted under the bottom of 
a door; there was the rumbling of carts in the distance; 
then, in the Rue des Clercs, the heaviness of the atmosphere 
oppressed him — an atmosphere saturated with the life and 
silence of these thousands of men and horses camping in all 
directions, filling the forts, the barracks, the glacis, the Ban 
Saint-Martin, and the He Chambiere, the ground dotted with 
gray tents, and the grass blackened by innumerable camp- 
fires. 

At the Hotel de I’Europe were sentinels, many lights, and 
much noise, and in the room o-^ the general headquarters, 
the windows of which were open, were officers bending over 
papers in the midst of clouds of tobacco-smoke. Du Breuil 
entered. Two fashionably-dressed ladies smiled at him on 
the threshold. One was the General’s wife, who was stop- 
ping there with her lady and nurse as though in the country 
for a holiday. Some orderlies and inquisitive people were 
in one of the lobbies. A journalist, who had applied to Du 
Breuil during the afternoon for information, barred his pas- 
sage. He was wearing a complete suit of clothes, a Tyrolese 
hat, and patent-leather shoes. In his hand was a carpet-bag. 


THE DISASTER. 


73 


“ Only too happy to give up my room to you, Major. I 
leave for Boulay. Nothing is known here, and I’m longing 
to learn something. What is being done? What are they 
waiting for ? ” 

He was a man with a long, clown-like face, and his man- 
ner was bantering. He slightly shrugged his shoulders. 
Du Ereuil saw from his sparkling eyes that he had been din- 
ing too well. 

“I respect the secret of armies, Major! But journalists 
are not in favor. Everything is kept from us. I’ve been 
twice arrested as a spy. . . . Now, between ourselves, 
how is it nothing is known? Perhaps you gentlemen don’t 
know any more yourselves ” 

The lobby door opened, and Major Blache appeared. 
As the orderly officer of Marshal Leboeuf, he was constantly 
in communication with the general .staff. The journalist, 
whom he had snubbed a few minutes before, stammered 
out: 

“Glad to see you. Major!” 

He saluted coldly, and Du Breuil saw the journalist slink 
away with the gliding steps of the rope-dancer, his carpet 
hag in hand. 

“You were speaking to that clown?” growled the Wild 
Boar. “ The first journalist who comes bothering me I shall 
throw through the window — chatterers that they are ! ” 

He had been in a state of anger for three days. The 
only words which he had had in his mouth were, “ A regular 
mess — a regular mess ! ” and these words had been repeated 
over and again with a fury that was really comic. Every- 
thing was going wrong. He was in a room swarming with 
bugs; some of his young comrades had been wanting in re- 
spect; and one of his horses had been injured during the 
journey. Moreover, being a man of method, he could not 
reconcile himself to the uproar in the workroom, to the 
presence there of strangers, who entered as though into the 
common room of an inn. The same agitation and looseness 
of action reigned in the four departments of the general 
headquarters, namely, the information, movement, personnel 
and materiel departments. The smallest telegraphic de- 
spatch was sufficient to throw everybody into a state of ex- 
citement. People had the air of those who are troubled by 
hallucinations. 


THE DISASTER. 


Y4 


“Great Jupiter! let’s be calm,” he growled twenty times 
a day. 

They entered the room, where the uproar was on the in- 
crease. 

“ De Breuil,” said Colonel Laune, “ I’ve got some work 
for you.” 

The colonel was slenderer and dryer than ever, and on the 
stretch like a steel bow. He was one of those rare men who, 
in spite of work, retain their lucidity, promptness, and de- 
cision. Heads were raised. Major Decherac, a friendly 
fellow, shook Du Breuil by the hand. Several officers smiled 
at him in recognition. Others didn’t move an inch. A look 
of envy came into the white, sickly, sardonic face of Captain 
Floppe. 

“ Here ! write me out this report,” said Laune, lowering 
his voice, “ General Lebrun is waiting for it.” 

De Breuil settled down to work. On his right a specta- 
cled, gray-haired, barrel-bellied Lieutenant-Colonel, with 
very little of the soldier about him, was trimming a quill 
pen with extraordinary attention. Facing him was Major 
Kelm, one of his comrades in Mexico, who was writing 
at a furious pace, biting his moustache the while. When, 
every now and then, Du Breuil raised his head, he met 
at the other end of the room the serious look of an officer 
named Restaud, who was unknown to him, but whose 
intelligent ugliness awoke in him a commencement of sym- 
pathy. 

The heat was stifling. A waiter entered carrying some 
mugs of beer on a tray. He had to return with others. One 
officer called for ice, and another for lemonade, and as Du 
Breuil once more plunged into his work the tall, very tall, 
Colonel Charlys, chief of the information department, came 
to confer with Laune a couple of feet away. They talked 
loud enough to be heard. 

“ Really, it was insupportable I ” Charlys was saying. 
His bony face reminded one of Don Quixote. “ Nine times 
out of ten, information was transmitted to the Emperor and 
to Marshal Leboeuf, by secret agents. The staff was thus 
ignorant of everything concerning the general policy and the 
reason for operations. The espionage staff was insignifi- 
cant. Consequently, the daily information sheet, made up 
of particulars at second-hand and those furnished each day 


THE DISASTER. 


75 


by the commanders of the corps, didn’t mention a single im- 
portant fact.” 

Colonel Laune, in reply to these grievances, said it was 
the same with certain movement orders, which, given direct- 
ly by the Emperor or the Major-General, never came to the 
knowledge of the officers. Both men complained of these 
irregularities. What was wanted was a single management, 
a guiding will. 

“ Our duty,” resumed Colonel Charlys, “ should not be re- 
duced to actual service and writing. If we don’t know by 
what considerations and news the orders which we transmit 
are justified, our role is diminished. The whole army may 
suffer from it ” 

On the advice of Laune he lowered his voice. 

Du Breuil, hearing nothing more, resumed work upon 
his report. Yes; this division of authority had many in- 
conveniences. The Emperor? He doubtless had some plan 
in view, but the indecision of his character, the disquietude 
which the disarray of the army, so slow in fitting itself out, 
inspired in him, paralyzed his mind, which at the best of 
times was prone to procrastination. . . . The command was 
in the hands of the Sovereign, the Commandant-General, 
and the Deputy-Commandant-General. It was felt that 
what was lacking was a vigorous impulse. Hardly had Du 
Breuil arrived than he saw the state of uncertainty and con- 
fusion which reigned. They were actually only completing 
the equipment and the armament ! And while the magazines 
at Metz were emptying, considerable ordnance stores were 
being collected at Eorbach and at Sarreguemines — towns 
which, being in proximity to the enemy, were open to their 
attack. To lighten the troops they had been relieved of 
their blankets and shakos ; on the other hand, other men had 
received the additional burden of ninety cartridges. . . . 
The Guard had put off their bearskin caps, and would go 
through the campaign in foraging caps. It had needed 
nothing less than one day to arrange that, and three different 
orders and counter-orders had been given. . . . When Du 
Breuil came to matters of detail, he was simply stupefied! 
Whatever the Minister might say in the Chamber, every- 
thing was wanting. There were no campaign-ovens, utensils, 
or camp effects; no tents, or pans, or soldiers’ mugs, or 
bowls; no infirmary attendants or administration employes; 


THE DISASTER. 


TO 

no medicine-chests, or stretchers, or cacolets ; * and no har- 
ness. And, in spite of the fine bearing of the old regiments, 
what stragglers, pillagers, and drunkards there were! 

He passed over in mind the journey from Paris to Metz, 
and saw again the stations crammed with soldiers; trains, 
packed to overflowing, in the sidings; again heard the cries 
and the songs and the tumult. At Vitry an officer was un- 
able to obtain obedience. At Chalons some Zouaves were 
dancing a farandole to the sound of a blatant cornopean! 
. . . Then, the arrival in the gray dawn, the pell-mell of 
bivouacs and camps, the glacis crowded with tents, piles of 
arms and canteen carriages; soldiers of different regiments, 
horses on picket, the silent mouths of the cannon drawn up 
in parks, the caissons, the carriages, and the immense river 
of men which had flowed there over a thousand routes of 
France. And suspended over this stagnant army was the 
vision of carnage, the impression of enervation and waiting. 
Du Breuil recalled the evening at Saint-Cloud; the “Mar- 
seillaise ” at the Opera. . . . That was the prelude. The 
drama was now about to commence. In the feverish im- 
patience which made his pen scratch over the paper it 
seemed to him that the actors had missed their entry. . . . 

Ah, what a relief it would be to hear the report of the 
first cannon ! 


CHAPTER II. 

Two days afterwards he took advantage of a moment’s 
freedom to rejoin D’Avol at the Cafe Parisien. His heart 
was overjoyed at the news which he had just heard. At last, 
then, they were going to move ; a grand operation on Sarre- 
briick was imminent. He walked as fast as he could. 

The Place de la Comedie was covered with soldiers, 
bourgeois, and peasants in their Sunday dress. The whole 
length of the parapet facing the old houses, which dipped 


* Originally a basket for carrying travellers or wounded persons on the 
backs of mules. The Avord here refers to a special kind of ambulance used 
in the French army. It was made of triancrles of iron rods, which were cov- 
ered with cloth bands to give elasticity. — F. L. 


THE DISASTER. 


77 

their feet into the waters of the Moselle, upon the bridge, 
under the lime-trees in quincunx — everywhere, in fact — 
was a medley of uniforms, and loungers walking about with 
an air of amusement. Admiration was centred preferably 
upon the fine uniform of the Guard, the white galloons on 
the uniforms of the Grenadiers, the yellow on those of the 
Light Infantry, the Tunisian cap of the Zouaves, auda- 
ciously tilted over on to the nape of the neck, and the light 
green cloth coats of the Empress’s Dragoons. A carabineer, 
who passed at a trot, made quite a sensation with his sky- 
blue tunic and shining copper breastplate. His horse reared, 
and an old woman had a' narrow escape from being crushed. 

Du Breuil’s attention was momentarily drawn to some 
officers, whose faces he thought he knew. There were so 
many faces, and all marked with the same professional 
wrinkle. He had been perplexed for the past three days by 
this crowd of anonymous faces. Certain of them, however, 
he remarked; an attitude, gesture, or physiognomy lingered 
in his mind. Some of them still retained their affectations, 
shaving themselves each morning, wearing their moustache 
and imperial; others had let their beard grow. But he 
noticed in the case of nearly every one a kind of negligence, 
unceremoniousness, as though they had returned to an in- 
stinctive animal life of freedom. . . . Comrades w^ere vo- 
racious, thirsts were unquenchable at the cafe, and there was 
more familiarity in the midst of their everyday life together. 

Hot a seat was vacant at the small tables of the Cafe 
Parisien. The terrace, ornamented with bay-trees in boxes, 
swarmed with uniforms. He recognised General Boisjol, in 
campaign uniform, with high yellow boots; his comrade, 
Decherac, of the staff; Captain Laprune, of the Dragoons; 
and Colonel Maisonval. Some journalists in eccentric dress 
— one had on a suit of black velvet, another was dressed like 
a brigand in an operetta — were mingled among the groups. 
People were looking askance at a tall, red-headed young 
fellow with prominent jaw-bones, the correspondent of the 
London Gazette. He was boasting of being perfectly au 
courant with what was going on in the offices. His less for- 
tunate confrere of the Standard had been imprisoned. 

Du Breuil noticed the proboscidian gravity with which a 
Captain of gendarmerie, a man with an enormous nose, car- 
ried a petit-verre to his mouth; the circular motion of his 


78 


THE DISASTER. 


arm reminded one somewhat of the movement of an ele- 
phant’s trunk. A commissary of stores was conversing with 
a hairy gorilla of a man, a member of the International So- 
ciety for Succouring the Wounded, upon whose cap and the 
band round his arm was a red cross upon a white ground. 
A group quite apart was composed of Post-Office employes 
in green and silver uniforms, with stripes over all the seams. 
Above the din of conversation could be heard the stentorian 
voice of Major Couchorte, of the Cuirassiers of the Guard, 
a Celtic giant, resplendent with steel. 

Du Breuil at last discovered D’Avol. 

“ Do you know these gentlemen ? ” he said. “ Captain de 
Serres and Lieutenant Thomas, belonging to my first bat- 
tery.” 

Salutes were exchanged, hands were clasped, and glasses 
of beer were drunk. 

‘‘Well, member of the staff,” said D’Avol, “ do you bring 
us the order to move? I am inclined to think so, judging 
from the mysterious air which you all wear to-day. Just 
look at this spectacled Colonel to the left. One would think 
he had swallowed his tongue.” 

Du Breuil recognised Lieutenant-Colonel Poterin, his 
neighbour of the workroom at the Hotel de I’Europe. His 
notebook was open before him, and this time he was in the 
act of sharpening a pencil. Was he always sharpening a 
pencil or trimming a quill pen ? 

“ Really, this uncertainty is irritating ! ” exclaimed Cap- 
tain de Serres, a very handsome, almost too handsome fel- 
low: it was said he wore stays. “We know nothing of 
the Germans; but they, informed by journalists, know every- 
thing, even to the position of our troops. Come now. Major, 
isn’t it absurd ? ” 

Upon hearing this embarrassing question. Lieutenant 
Thomas — his moustache consisted of only a couple of hairs 
— turned away his head out of hierarchical respect, and com- 
menced to rub the inflamed corner of his eyelid. 

“ And what of that ? ” exclaimed D’Avol. “ In the days 
of the Other that didn’t lengthen out matters. You recollect 
the withering campaign of 1806 . The Prussian monarchy 
was demolished in seventeen days.” 

“ There are different men at different periods,” exclaimed 
Du Breuil. 


THE DISASTER. 


70 


“ No, no,” replied D’Avol. “ Men change but little. 
They are what they are made. One can say with certainty: 
Like Captain, like army.” 

“ If we don’t move,” exclaimed Captain de Serres, “ was 
it really worth while distributing to us so many maps of 
Germany — whole piles of them? I hope that we haven’t to 
pass through all the districts they contain.” 

“ In the meanwhile maps of the frontier are wanting,” 
remarked D’Avol. “ Impossible to .get them. Have you 
one, gentlemen ? ” 

The three officers answered in the negative. At the 
neighbouring tables there was the sound of rising voices : 

“ There is not a single map in Metz ! ” 

“Not a library possesses one ! ” 

“ What is the war depot thinking about ? ” 

D’Avol lowered his voice, and, turning towards Du 
Breuil, said: 

“ Just now, when I was waiting for you, I saw that old 
Colonel of Dragoons gravely unfold his map. Do you know 
what he said to the Captain who accompanies him?” Du 
Breuil recognised La Maisonval and Captain Laprune. 
“ ‘ Isn’t this the Rhine which passes Sarrelouis ? ’ And the 
Captain replied: ‘I beg your pardon. Colonel, it is the 
Moselle.’ ” 

The loud voice of Major Couchorte was heard. He ap- 
peared to be angry. In front of him was seated an acute- 
minded, dark-complexioned, small-statured Light Infantry 
Captain. He looked like a gnat annoying a lion. 

“ Leave me in peace,” clamoured the giant. “ What stuff 
and nonsense all this talk about the range and accuracy of 
your Prussian guns ! Do you think all the balls and bullets 
in the world are equal to a fine cavalry charge ? Our tactic, 
Captain, is to form into large, compact masses, to open out 
and then to charge. And a devilish good tactic too, as was 
shown at the Moskova and at Waterloo.” 

“ However, Major, I’ll undertake to say that Marshal 
Niel in his ‘ Observations sur le Service de la Cavalerie en 
Campagne,’ expounds different principles, and ones more in 
accordance with the destructive progress of firearms. The 
reconnoitring of columns, connecting them, harrassing the 
enemy, and then, when the battle is about to start, off like 
the wind to be on the watch. . . .” 


80 


.THE DISASTER. 


“ Marshal Niel is out of date ! ” cried Couchorte. 
“ Marshal Leboeuf, very quickly did away with that instruc- 
tion. No, sir, cavalry is a first-rate fighting tool. We are 
there to give the decisive blow of the battle ; we are the iron 
corner which forces its way forward and destroys everything. 
To charge and sabre right and left is the only thing I know.” 

The Dragoons approved of what he said. Old Colonel La 
Maisonval twirled his moustache between his powerful 
fingers. Captain Laprune gave forth a laugh under his hel- 
met, with it’s horse’s tail, which resembled the neigh of a 
horse. The infantrymen discreetly shrugged their shoulders. 

Erom the adjoining table came complaints about the com- 
missariat. 

“ The Emperor is very displeased with it,” Lieutenant 
Marquis, a Light Infantry officer, was saying gravely. He 
was always full of news, whether it was true or not. Tie 
had large round eyes, his hair was untidy, and his air was at 
once foolish and important. “We met His Majesty this 
morning when returning from a military march, and notwith- 
standing our cheers, his face remained cold. It appeared he 
had just been doing execution among the commissariat offi- 
cials. It is also said that he is furious with the state of 
the forts ” 

“ It is evident,” resumed D’Avol, “ that many things are 
not progressing, but if we are to wait until we lack neither a 
mug nor a biscuit, the Prussians will have a fine time. . . . 
Hallo, Barrus ! ” he exclaimed, catching sight of an officer of 
the garrison, a captain in the Engineers. “ He will explain 
to us the reason for the delay in arming the forts.” 

The new arrival answered bitterly: 

“ It is a question of money. Major.” 

Captain Barrus — small, dark, the possessor of an intelli- 
gent face, a sectarian forehead, and a dark, fiery gleam in 
his eyes — added: 

“ Yes, the budget of war and the defence of towns — all 
those things are mere nonsense .... while a ball at the 
Tuileries, and a splendid income for the Master of the 
Hounds, a hundred thousand francs here and one hundred 
thousand francs there — those things are all right.” 

He summed up the situation. Four works in course of 
construction were to be added to the two forts — namely, 
Moselle and Bellecroix — which flanked Metz on the north- 


THE DISASTER. 


81 


east and on the north-west. These were Plappeville and 
Saint-Quentin on the left bank, Queuleu and Saint- Julien 
on the right bank. The first two were the most advanced; 
the only thing that had to be done was to cover the remblais 
and parapets with earth. On the other hand, there remained 
much to be done to forts Queuleu and Saint- Julien, which 
were large bastioned pentagons, still open at the gorge. But 
the unprotected parts of the escarps were being hurriedly 
stockaded, and the breaches were being barred by means of 
strong blinds. The armament was being completed tolerably 
well. As a matter of fact, the number of guns unlimbered 
was insufficient. ... A new fort (that of Saint-Privat), 
which was intended to protect the railway and the station, 
had been commenced in May, but it was hardly finished. As 
to works of minor importance, intended to connect the sys- 
tem of forts, they only existed on paper. 

“ It’s all the same,” he continued, with that acrimony 
which opponents of the Empire manifested ; “ one has only 
to take the offensive, and the condition of the forts will be a 
matter for less disquietude. Unfortunately, yesterday’s 
proclamation isn’t one which shows a strong will. What is : 

^ To defend the honour and the Fatherland ’ ? Are we, then, 
threatened with invasion ? What is the meaning of ^ What- 
ever route we follow beyond our frontiers ’ ? We don’t know, 
then, yet wffiich to choose ? And it concludes with Bossuet’s 
‘ Dieu des Armees,’ with the freshness taken off.” 

He added: 

“ That is not the way men are roused.” 

“ Pooh ! words — mere words ! ” exclaimed D’Avol. 
‘‘ We’re only talking to kill time. Let the signal to saddle be 
given, and you will see.” 

Captain de Serres gave a cruel laugh. 

“ My orderly was still busy sharpening my sword this 
morning. I said to him : ‘ The point in preference. The 
edge wounds, but the point kills.’ ” 

Couchorte cried: 

“ The sword — there is nothing like the sword ! It is the 
very first of arms. When on the gallop, with one’s blade 
securely fixed to the wrist, one can go through one’s man as 
though he were butter.” 

More than one agitated his sword-knot at the murderous 
vision. Over certain faces there passed a hard expression. 


82 


THE DISASTER. 


Even among the group of Post-Office employes there were 
bellicose smiles. All looked brilliant in their fresh green 
uniforms, and were filled with self-sufficiency, which was, 
perhaps, only embarrassment. One of them even com- 
placently assured himself that his sword was loose in its 
scabbard. The action attracted Captain Laprune’s atten- 
tion. 

“ Sir,” said he, with jeering politeness, you have placed 
the hilt wrong way round.” 

The employe slightly reddened. 

“ Sir,” continued Laprune, with the same coldness, “ your 
spurs are buckled on upside down.” 

The man became scarlet. There was laughter around 
him, and his comrades cowardly joined in. But their pres- 
tige was damaged. 

D’Avol considered Couchorte was making himself ridicu- 
lous. He growled in a low voice: 

“ A fine fellow that ! Let him try to spit shells and cleave 
bullets with his larding-knife and he’ll see! . . . Are you 
off already, Pierre? I’ll come with you.” 

He paid for the drinks, and said good-bye to his comrades. 
When leaving, they passed by the side of Lieutenant Mar- 
quis. The chatterer was holding forth in the midst of a 
circle of attentive listeners, tracing campaign plans on the 
marble table with a match dipped in coffee. 

The two friends walked for a moment in silence. 

“ I’m going to Pere Gugl’s,” said Du Breuil. “ Do you 
remember him — the Jew watchmaker? When I say Pere, 
I really mean the son, who has succeeded him. But the 
resemblance is astonishing. He has quite the air of the 
old man.” 

“ Pere Gugl,” said D’Avol, “ who used to lend us money 
when we were at the school at fifty per cent ? Old thief ! ” 

“ Yes, but a very clever jeweller. I want this stone set 
in a ring.” 

Du Breuil showed Mine, de Guionic’s opal. 

“ It is cracked, isn’t it ? ” said D’Avol. 

“ I shall keep it, all the same.” 

Jacques did not ask for an explanation, doubtless remem- 
bering the opal bracelet. He had admired Mme. de Guionic’s 
slender wrist in the box at the Opera. Du Breuil was aston- 
ished to feel how far off that recollection was. It was only 


THE DISASTER. 


83 


four days since he had left her, but it seemed almost four 
months. 

Gugl’s shop was half open, half closed. 

His eye blinked — that single eye with which the Jew 
scrutinized the officers, for he was blind of one eye, like his 
father, since birth. He cast an anxious look in the direc- 
tion of his wife, who, wrapped in a cashmere, wore black 
silk bands upon her head and forehead to do duty for 
hair. She immediately left them. A Jew-like smell issued 
from the small, dark room. In the shop-window, behind a 
dirty glass, were some old broken watches and small bric-a- 
brac. 

“Well, Gugl, don’t you recognise me?” asked Du Breuil. 
He had to refresh his memory. 

The Jew, who was pulling at his forked beard with a 
perplexed air, raised his hands. He had seen so many pupils 
of the school — goot young men! But trate vas not goot. 
Ah, Got of Israel! trate vas very pat. . . . 

“ Reassure yourself, Gugl ; I don’t want to borrow any of 
your money. Can you show me some old rings ? ” 

“ Beautiful rinks ? Goot rinks ? ” 

He hesitated, with anxious air, to call his better half. He 
decided to do so, however, as though he had a fear for the 
dusty treasures in his shop-window. The venerable matron 
arrived, dragging with her two untidy children — almost 
albinos, they were so fair. Gugl, reassured, disappeared in 
a corner, which was hidden by a tattered hanging, and re- 
turned with some rings of pale chased gold. Du Breuil was 
a long time in making a choice and in beating down the 
price. He finally decided to purchase a foliated ring, the 
empty bezel of which was just the size of his opal. D’AvoI 
was getting impatient. When Du Breuil had been conducted 
to the door, amid the blessings of the Israelite and his wife, 
and was outside, D’Avol said: 

“ Frankly, do you know anything ? What is our posi- 
tion?” 

Du Breuil smiled. 

“Strictly in confidence, eh? Well, a grand movement 
upon Sarrebriick is being prepared. The Emperor heard 
yesterday that the Prussia;ns were advancing from that side. 
There was some talk of forty thousand men. It is, therefore, 
an urgent matter, and under these circumstances the 3rd and 


84 


THE DISASTER. 


6th corps will support the 2nd. Bazaine will direct the 
attack.” 

“ Bravo ! ” exclaimed D’Avol, his eyes sparkling with 
pleasure. “ And the Guard ? ” 

“ The Guard remains at Metz.” 

D’Avol stifled an oath. His face was contracted almost 
maliciously. 

“At Metz? And what shall we do while the others are 
fighting ? Go fishing ? ” 

“ Be patient ; there will be more than one change. The 
last word hasn’t been said. Come as far as the hotel, and we 
may perhaps learn more.” 

D’Avol was raging : 

“ It doesn’t matter, but I would willingly have fired the 
first cannon-shot.” 

Du Breuil imagined, almost heard, that first report. There 
wAs a deafening crash, the great plaintive whistling of the 
shell, the bursting in all directions in the midst of a group 
of Germans. There were cries, a stomach ripped open and 
a head shattered. That was what everybody eagerly and 
joyously wished. He saw himself in a flash carrying orders. 

. . . He was surrounded ; he was striking right and left with 
his sword. . . . Suddenly an unknown face beset him — a red 
face with hard blue eyes and tawny beard; an anonymous 
face, which to him was the face of the Enemy. He thought 
of Baron Hacks, of his haughty politeness, of the Exhibi- 
tion, and of the hours they had passed together. What 
would he feel if he met him in a melee? . . . Nothing new 
was known at headquarters. The Guard was not going to 
move. 

The night passed without incident. On the following day 
he knew that a conference had been held at Forbach between 
Marshal Bazaine, Generals Frossard, De Eailly, Lebrun, 
Soleille, in command of the artillery, and Cofiinieres, in com- 
mand of the Genie. It had been decided at that meeting 
that the 2nd corps, supported by Bazaine on the right and by 
Eailly on the left, should attack Sarrebriick. The Emperor 
fixed the action for August 2. 

Du Breuil reflected. Incalculable results might depend 
upon this first battle on the Sarre — the confidence and the 
enthusiasm of the troops, the moral effect, everything which, 
in the terrible game of military probabilities, reverberated 


THE DISASTER. 


85 


so deeply in the soul of the army and of the country. Ap- 
pointed in the morning, and a quarter of an hour afterwards 
told he would have to stay where he was, he had the annoy- 
ance of seeing his comrade Kelm leave for Sarrebriick in his 
place. He seemed to feel displeasure at the little yellow 
Captain, whose envious face had a cunning smile upon it, at 
the bottom of the room at headquarters. In compensation he 
had exchanged a few words with Restaud, the officer whose 
intelligent ugliness and serious look attracted him. Until 
two o’clock he could hardly keep himself still; contradictory 
despatches and rumours brought the stifled echo, the great 
murmur of the fight. He imagined the army on the march, 
the attack, the battle with its sudden changes, the cries, the 
assaults, the recoils, the wavering lines of men amid the 
smoke and the smell of the powder. His former chief. Colo- 
nel Deresse, of the Artillery, would certainly be taking part 
in it. 

Suddenly Colonel Laune called him. Stout Colonel 
Jacquemere, head of the materiel department, was in con- 
sultation with him. Du Breuil was to go to the station. 
Some trains, intended to assure the immediate transport of 
an army corps, were to be held in reserve, and to again leave 
for the stations between Metz, Frouard, and Thionville. He 
was to see if these important measures could be put into exe- 
cution from one hour to another. 

He went in the direction of the railway-station thinking 
deeply. Hardly, however, had he reached the Porte Ser- 
penoise, where innumerable recruiting carriages blocked the 
way, than a voice called to him : 

“Du Breuil!” 

He turned. Decherac galloped up to him. Counter-order. 
Those in authority had changed their minds. Du Breuil 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“I was certain,” he said. He had been disturbed three 
times that day for nothing. 

They had some difficulty in extricating themselves from- 
among the vehicles. A huge cart-horse with shaggy hoofs 
and disorderly mane, excited by Decherac’s mare', had com- 
menced to neigh furiously. The animal plunged right and 
left between the shafts, and tried, by a series of jerks, to raise 
the heavy load. Its master ran up and calmed its ardour with 
a storm of blows from his whip. 


S6 


THE DISASTER. 


“ Come, now, don’t strike so hard,” said a sly-looking old 
peasant, lighting^his pipe. “ He isn’t a Prussian.” 

“ If he was,” said the carter, a rosy-cheeked, red-haired, 
ugly man, glowing with health, “ I should strike harder than 
that.” 

He laughed, showing his animal teeth, and looked for the 
approbation of the two officers. They turned their heads. 

“Ah, la, la!” fumed the annoyed carter. “Fine fellows 
these with their hobby-horses ! ” 

“ I have a good mind to go on to the station,” said Du 
Breuil. “ Perhaps we may hear something.” 

A Light Infantry Lieutenant with sparkling eyes ap- 
peared, almost at a run. Du Breuil recognised Marquis, the 
newsmonger. The man was waving his kepi. 

“ Victory, Major! ” he cried. “ The Prussians are routed; 
we sent them to the devil. The mitrailleuses worked splen- 
didly! Sarrebriick is in ashes. There are several thousand 
prisoners.” 

A gig, harnessed to an old horse, stopped. A stout gen- 
tleman with a fresh complexion saluted them. It was M. 
Dumaine, one of the guests at the Bersheim dinner-party, 
and he had just come from the railway-station. 

“ Quite a triumph, gentlemen. We have invaded Ger- 
many. The Emperor and the Prince Imperial exposed them- 
selves during the fight with admirable courage. At the pres- 
ent time our army, like one man, is moving on Sarrelouis.” 

The hearts of Du Breuil and Decherac beat violently. . 
They were encircled by carters, estafettes, and passers-by. 
Du Breuil thought but little of spilt blood. “ Sarrebriick in 
ashes. The mitrailleuses worked splendidly ! ” — words which 
he repeated awakened in him only thoughts of hope and suc- 
cess. In his soul of a soldier and of a Frenchman he had 
doubted, he had feared. This victory filled him with proud 
joy. Come, the Empire still possessed its star! 

Some people arrived from the railway-station. The news 
was in everybody’s mouth. An old woman, passing near the 
officers, said ; 

“ They have killed them, they have killed them ! . . .” 

She shook her head; and in her accent, in her gaze, was 
mystery and stupor. . . . Those young men who would no 
longer eat or drink, and who, up yonder on the heights and 
in the ditches, strewed the ground! 


THE DISASTER. 


87 


“Yes; they must have killed them,” said M. Dumaine, 
in a peaceable tone, as though nothing was more natural. 
“ Gentlemen, pleased to have met you.” 

A cruel disillusion awaited them at headquarters. Major 
Kelm had arrived fronl Sarrebriick. Surrounded by quite a 
large number of officers, he gave an account of the action. 
The Bataille division, assisted by a brigade of the Laveau- 
coupet division, alone had taken part in it. They had 
stormed the heights and dislodged the Germans from Sarre- 
briick. That was all. Questions came from all sides. The 
dry, precise Laune summed them up by saying : 

“ What were the German forces ? ” 

“ Nothing very great. Colonel. A small garrison of two 
regiments at the most. The cavalry and artillery were in- 
significant.” 

But Kelm’s pessimism, his horror of exaggeration and 
boasting, were well known. He was an excellent officer, but 
his disbelief in the most averred piece of news was carried 
too far. 

“ But the prisoners and the enemy’s losses ? ” 

“ Prisoners ! Hardly a hundred. As to the mitrailleuses, 
it is true they did some destruction to a few platoons on the 
railway embankment.” 

Du Breuil met Decherac’s eyes. They mistrusted the 
sudden change in their feelings, not wishing to pass from a 
state of enthusiasm to too great a state of deception. Kelm 
was undoubtedly under-estimating things. But in the even- 
ing they had to accept the evidence. The action had been a 
combat de parade^ and was reduced to elements so simple 
that a child could have traced them in the sand. The 1st 
brigade of the Bataille division had stormed the heights bj^ 
way of the railway, the woods, and the road leading from 
Porbach to Sarrebriick; the 2nd brigade took Saint- Arnual, 
and fell back on the manoeuvring-ground, the Exercitz-Platz. 
And both had dislodged the enemy, and then vigorously can- 
nonaded them from that place. The railway-station and the 
bridge had also been bombarded.* 


* The field was badly chosen, owin^ to ignorance on the part of the 
French grenerals both of the topography of the region and of the position of 
the enemy. Only about seventy soldiers were wounded on either side. It 
is stated that the only true despatch concerning the battle was the one sent 
to Berlin by the Prussians. — F. L. 

7 


88 


THE DISASTER. 


It was undoubtedly a success, but it by no means justified 
the exaggeration of the first account. The disenchantment 
spread to the whole army and to the town. Du Breuil asked 
himself why the troops were stopping where they were. Why 
had they not occupied Sarrebriick, which was captured first? 
This long-awaited, long-hoped-for battle was, then, only an 
official ceremony — a baptism of fire. Comments were made 
upon Bazaine’s abstention from the fight. Had he wished 
to leave the honour, some said the responsibility, to General 
Erossard? Was he still discontentedly holding himself apart? 
However that may be, he had not appeared, leaving the three 
army corps under his orders to get out of their difficulties 
without him. . . . The Emperor had asked for him in 
vain upon arriving on the battle-field. The Marshal had 
left Eorbach in the morning, going across the woods in the 
direction of Werden. General Lebrun had not been able 
to find him again. 

What matter? The day had been a satisfactory one. 
There had been an awakening from this nightmare of in- 
action and waiting. At last they were commencing business. 
It was the first step. 


CHAPTER III. 

Du Breuil spent the night of the 3rd and the early morn- 
ing of the 4th of August in transcribing despatches and 
movement orders. 

At that very time a projected operation of the 4th corps 
on Sarrelouis had just been abandoned. The Thionville 
police commissary reported, in fact, the passage at Treves 
of forty thousand Prussians. From which side would they 
debouch? . . . The energy of his faculties seemed to him to 
be doubled. Nothing damped his zeal. It was in obedience 
to a feeling of honour and solidarity that he thus expended 
his energy. There were too many complaints, too many 
grievances against the staff, for there not to be reason for an 
example. 

Besides, his department was the worst overburdened of 
all. Of the two Captains occupied with the same work, one 
of them, Massoli, stout, short-sighted, a man with jet-black 


THE DISASTER. 


89 


hair, was continually moaning. He had to have his food 
cooked without seasoning, milk at every meal, and a cushion 
to sit upon. The other. He Francastel, a flighty chatterer 
with a bird-like face, had his head full of stories about women 
and recollections of the boulevard. His misadventures were 
a source of enlivenment. He pretended that he could speak 
German admirably, but when he was charged to question a 
prisoner, he jabbered in such a grotesque jargon that the non- 
commissioned ofiicer, a stiff Uhlan with red hair, burst into 
laughter. 

It was only at daybreak that Du Breuil was able to take 
some rest. When he awoke two hours afterwards, he saw at 
his bedside a powerful gray dog, looking at him patiently and 
attentively. Behind the animal, seated upon a chair, was a 
Captain of the Lancers of the Guard, his sword between his 
legs, dressed in a sky-blue kurka and a czapska upon his 
head. Lacoste, his face still energetic, his look still frank, 
not in the least changed, smiled at him. 

“ What, is that you ? Why didn’t you wake me ? ” 

Titan and I have just arrived. You were sleeping so 
soundly. . . .” Lacoste had a joyous air. Here we are, all 
the same ! Arrived yesterday evening after twenty-four hours 
in the train. Men and horses worn out. But what a recep- 
tion on the route ! Everybody’s head has been turned by the 
news from Sarrebriick. Flowers and cries of ‘ Long live the 
army!’ Just think! The first victory. We heard of it in 
Paris when we were about to leave. You should have seen 
the enthusiasm. It was simply tremendous. . . . Then, 
hardly had we got camped than I had the pleasure to learn 
we are to set off at five in the morning with the whole of the 
division. But it’s almost certain they won’t leave till after 
breakfast. Then, as I had to come to the Place, I wanted 
to shake you by the hand. After that I must be off, for there 
is work to be done.” 

Du Breuil drew aside the curtains and opened the window. 
Both men leant on the sill and inhaled the air. 

The weather is cool and cloudy,” said Lacoste. “ Excel- 
lent for marching. Do you know exactly where we’re going ? ” 
To Boulay.” 

“ Anywhere, provided we march ; I don’t care. What a 
deception this Sarrebriick! You cannot imagine the joy and 
the delirium in Paris. A bundle of straw on fire — we’re just 


90 


THE DISASTER. 


like that. . . . But this time the great blow will be given. 
Well, my time’s up.” 

They descended together. Lacoste accepted a glass of hot 
coffee. Titan at one bite swallowed the petit-pain thrown 
to him by his master. 

A graceful mare, under the care of the orderly, was wait- 
ing in the street. 

Good-morning, Musette,” said Du Breuil, stroking her 

neck. 

“Aw revoir, my dear fellow,” said Lacoste, with tears in 
his eyes. “ God knows when I shall see you again.” 

He jumped into the saddle. Musette, who was pawing 
the ground impatiently, set off at a slow trot; Titan, over- 
flowing with joy, preceded her with heavy bounds. Du 
Breuil experienced a feeling of pleasure. 

“ Good old Lacoste!” 

He then saw M. Bersheim, who appeared looking radiant. 
He was holding a letter in his hand. 

“ Good-morning, my dear friend. I hope you have had 
news from home. The postal service is very irregular. Here 
is a letter which has been delayed for some considerable 
time.” 

Du Breuil had, indeed, twice written to his parents, and 
had as yet received no reply. Bersheim added: 

“ It’s my cuirassier, Andre, who wrote this. He tells me 
that our Zouave again feels the effects of the African fevers. 
Poor Maurice was always delicate, but the climate of Alsace 
will cure him. He has great hopes of winning promotion 
at the first engagement. It’s terrifying, isn’t it? to have 
children in the fight. Well, my dear friend, I am very calm. 
And my daughter, too, is brave. You see, when one is told 
that the people we love are doing their duty, one is comforted. 
My wife alone is unreasonable. The motherly love in her 
is awakened, and she worries herself to death. ^Pooh ! all 
bullets don’t kill,’ I’ve said to her over and over again. She 
had a terrible time last night.” 

Bersheim retained the face of a man who sleeps, whose 
conscience is at rest. But perhaps he was putting on a better 
countenance than he had a mind to, for suddenly his eyes 
filled with tears and his mouth trembled slightly. 

“ I have faith in God,” he said ; then, after a silence : 
“ Guess where I am going. To say good-bye to D’Avol. I 


THE DISASTER. 


91 


am taking him a few good cigars to slip into his saddle-bags. 
I am sure he’s never thought of any. But Anine thinks of 
everything. And I am taking General Boisjol a bottle of that 
old kirsch which he seemed to appreciate. What are you 
thinking about ? ” 

Du Breuil reddened. He had called Anine to mind, and, 
in a very indefinite and dim way, was envying her kind at- 
tention for D’Avol, at the same time considering it was the 
most natural thing in the world. She would certainly not 
have had the same attention for him. But what was he, 
after all? A former friend of the family, perhaps almost for- 
gotten. All the same, she had welcomed him like a close 
friend. 

The Guard had commenced to leave Metz since morning. 

Bands played. A stream of men and cannon passed out 
by the Porte des Allemands beyond the walls, convoys follow- 
ing amid clouds of dust. 

After breakfast he saw the cavalry division go by. It 
advanced, four abreast, at a walk, headed by the light bri- 
gade. The light green pelisses of the light cavalry soldiers, 
the dark green of the flugelmen, the white cross-belts and 
rows of shining buttons on their breasts, gave this pomp of 
war a joyous appearance, the small, fiery, foaming gray horses 
of the cavalry contrasting with the large, quieter Hormandy 
horses of the flugelmen. Officers and soldiers, with that 
mocking indifference customary to horsemen, gazed over the 
heads of the people. The Empress’s Dragoons and the lancers 
next appeared, the former in green, and the latter in their 
blue uniforms. The small flags on the lances fluttered. La- 
coste, mounted on Musette, saw Du Breuil from a distance 
and saluted him with his sword. In the rear-rank was an 
old quartermaster, covered with medals — the one who had 
received Du Breuil at the barracks at Saint-Cloud. Stiff 
and grave, he turned his head neither one way nor another. 
The carabineers and cuirassiers on their huge horses were in 
the rear, the former with gold, and the latter with silver, 
breastplates. At the head of these squadrons was the gigantic 
Couchorte, looking like a man of another age. Harsh and 
strident trumpets sounded, making the horses prick up their 
ears and the men straighten their figures. Veterans, covered 
with medals, and robust horses — still the cavalry filed past. 
This splendid division gave an impression of redoubtable 


92 


THE DISASTER. 


force — a force which was still more emphasized by the guns 
of two batteries which rolled over the paving-stones with a 
noise like thunder. Du Breuil, filled w'ith pride, watched the 
last breastplates and the last horses disappear in the dis- 
tance. 

The day passed without any news being received. To- 
wards evening vague and mysterious rumours, foreboding ill- 
omened occurrences, spread about. One of MacMahon’s 
divisions had been attacked and beaten back. Du Breuil 
could not believe it. People and ofiicers from the town, eager 
for news, poured into headquarters. Nothing was known. 
He was then ordered to take some registers to the Prefecture 
to Marshal Lebceuf. 

The Prefecture, with its small courtyard always full of 
comers and goers, its open windows of the central first-floor, 
occupied by officers of all ranks who had accompanied the 
Emperor, the confusion of its kitchens in the right wing — 
some scullions dressed in white and some livery-servants 
were just at that time occupied in unloading a waggon-load 
of provisions — with its superabundance of employes and 
officials, its inquisitive and idle people, seemed to him more 
like a branch of the Hotel de FEurope than the quiet resi- 
dence of the Sovereign. More than once, when his duties 
had called him there, he had glanced at the high closed win- 
dows on the second-floor, where the private apartments of 
the Emperor and the Prince Imperial were situated. The 
destiny of the army, the destiny of Erance, was there. 

An unusual state of agitation reigned there that evening. 
Groups of people were standing here and there; shadows 
appeared on the blinds of the brilliantly illumined windows. 
A stout butler crossed the courtyard on tiptoe, looking, in 
his maroon coat, like a large cockchafer. When on the 
threshold, he turned round, bringing to view a discomfited 
face. Then he proceeded towards a buffet which had been 
fitted up in one of the large rooms. His face was known to 
Du Breuil; he had noticed the man full of assurance and 
majesty at the dinner at Saint-Cloud. 

Hardly had he entered the room, in which Aides-de-camp, 
orderly officers, and Generals were crowding, than the bad 
news struck him full in the face. There was a confused noise 
of exclamations, incredulous sneers and low complaints. The 
telegram had just arrived at the telegraph-office which had 


THE DISASTER. 


93 


been fitted up in one of the offices of the Prefecture. It 
stated that a brigade of the Abel Douay division,* belonging 
to the 1st Army Corps, had been surprised at Wissemberg 
by very superior forces; that General Douay was killed, and 
his troops repulsed from Geissberg. Their camp was in the 
hands of the enemy. On the other hand, the Baden- Wur- 
temberger corps had crossed the frontier at the low part of 
the river Lauter, and occupied Lauterberg. 

Du Breuil was thunderstruck. Everybody was stupefied. 
Blache was purple, and his prominent teeth made his air of 
a wild-boar still more pronounced. In the middle of a group 
of officers. General Jaillant was commenting upon the oc- 
currence in a decisive tone of voice, and always with quib- 
bles, evasions, ifs and huts — an exemplification of the impos- 
sibility in the French character of acknowledging that they 
could have been badly informed, badly instructed, and badly 
protected. 

Douay surprised! they repeated, as if in emulation of 
one another. 

The emotion produced in the imperial entourage resulted 
on the following day in important measures being taken. A 
general order from the Emperor gave the command of the 
2nd, 3rd, and 4th corps to Marshal Bazaine; that of the 1st, 
5th, and 7th to MacMahon — but for military operations only. 
The Guard, recalled on Metz and sent to Courcelles, remained 
at the disposal of the Sovereign. The 5th corps was to be 
directed from Sarreguemines on to Bitche; and Marshal 
Canrobert was urgently summoned to Nancy with his four 
divisions. The situation was serious. The 2nd corps being 
too hemmed in at Sarrebruck, General Frossard, during the 
day, asked for and obtained authorization to fall back on 
Forbach. The German forces on that side were increasing 
in numbers. It was still asked, however, at the general staff 
if the 7th Prussian Army Corps was proceeding from Treves 
on Sarrelouis or was going to join the remains of the first 
army in the direction of Sarrebruck. 


* This was the first defeat the French received. General Abel Donay 
was camped on the Geissberg, a hill south-east of Wissemberg, with 9,000 
men. He was attacked by the Prince Royal, who had 180,000' men at his 
command. The French advanced as best they could across the Lauter 
against the Germans, who were in ambuscade on the opposite heights. This 
battle opened up Alsace to the German forces. — F. L. 


94 


THE DISASTER. 


The giving up of the command to Bazaine was much 
commented upon. Many, basing their conclusions on the 
Marshal’s merit, saw in the step a pledge of future success. 
People were unanimous in deploring the interference of the 
Emperor and the ' Commander-General in the management 
of affairs. Certain people, through policy, rejoiced to see 
authority, which public opinion claimed for him, restored to 
Bazaine, tardy and incomplete though it was. His disgrace 
upon returning from Mexico, although he had since been in 
command of the 3rd corps at Nancy and then of the Imperial 
Guard, had made him dear to the Opposition. His partisans 
glorified him, and complained aloud of the discontent which 
had been caused by placing him on one side at the commence- 
ment of the campaign. 

Towards night-time Du Breuil was again called to the 
Prefecture, and was charged, to his great joy, with a special 
mission. The vanguard of the first Prussian army was only 
a few miles from Sarrebriick. He was ordered to take to 
General Frossard all information in regard to the enemy’s 
forces which the staff had been able to collect. Steinmetz, 
it was said, was going to appear on the Sarre with the heads 
of the columns of the 7th corps (Zastrow) and 8th corps 
(Goeben). And Prince Frederick Charles’s aimy was not far 
off. Du Breuil was also to restore the 2nd corps to its former 
position. 

He took the train at dawn for Forbach. 

Notwithstanding the early hour, the station was crowded 
with travellers. The approach of the Germans had resulted 
in the whole length of the line being crowded to an extraor- 
dinary extent. The compartment in which Du Breuil was 
seated with Decherac, who was charged with a similar mis- 
sion to Bazaine at Saint-Avold, was coupled between two 
files of carriages filled with reservists, who were rejoining 
their corps. Their heads hanging out of the carriage win- 
dows, they were greeting everything which attracted their 
attention with exclamations and laughter. Some had re- 
sumed their military habits, brusque and free ; others, fathers 
of families, maintained a homely physiognomy. Du Breuil 
looked at his travelling companions. He recognised a tall 
individual dressed in a soft hat and a complete suit of velvet, 
leather gaiters, a field-glass slung across his shoulder, and 
his pocket bursting with notebooks. It was one of the jour- 


THE DISASTER. 


95 


nalists of the Cafe Parisien. The train crossed the plain of 
Sablon. He lowered the window. They passed the Pate 
Hedoute, with its group of trees, the hill of Queuleu, its gar- 
dens in the shape of an amphitheatre, their sombre verdure 
arranged on the clear sky in rows one above the other. A 
blue mist wavered above the Seille, and in the keen air there 
floated a smell of the fresh earth and of the morning. Some 
peasants were working in the fields. The sun appeared. The 
wet grass sparkled. A cow raised its head as the train passed. 

The two officers exchanged a look. How beautiful it was 
this morning! Exquisite hour! ... It was a pleasure to 
live. The rain, which had fallen all night, had washed the 
sky. The roads were still hollowed into little ravines by the 
water. 

At Faulquemont a property-owner of the district got into 
the compartment to go to Crehange, where he owned some 
land. He had a fear for his young plants; in all probability 
they had been ravaged by the terrible storm of the previous 
night, which had raged over all the district. 

Hu Breuil said: 

“ The army must be like a wet rag. This rain, you know, 
on the eve of fighting is terrible. Icy-cold shirts, stiff godil- 
lots, muddy trousers — all these things in the end tell on the 
morale of the soldiers.” 

“ Pooh ! ” exclaimed Hecherac ; the sun will remedy 
that.” 

The train was travelling at full speed across a rich coun- 
try — fields, the soil of which was red and fertile; extensive 
prairies, smoking in a golden light ; the blue waters of the 
German Hied. Far into the distance, on the roads, broken 
up by the storm, convoys were winding their way; long files 
of vehicles, the wheels half buried in ruts, provision and 
ammunition waggons, equipages of all kinds, proceeded under 
the protection of small escorts. One carried away a vision 
of muddy horses and men toiling along the roads. 

In the frame of the carriage window he saw the regular 
rise and fall of the telegraph-wires, the sudden interception 
of an embankment. Then came the rumbling of the train 
as it passed through a tunnel. A small wood, a copse with 
fresh foliage sparkling with rain, Folschwiller, the camp of 
a division of infantry with the lines of camp-fires, the piles 
of guns, the red and blue movement of the bivouac, appeared. 


96 


THE DISASTER. 


Saint-Avold was reached. Decherac left the train, as well 
as part of the reservist's. 

The train now followed the valley of the Rosselle. Ros- 
briick ! Du Breuil, through an opening between two hills, in 
the distance saw German territory, with its horizon of fields, 
villages, and trees. By simple reason of a demarcation post 
this territory, exactly like that of France, with its fields, its 
villages, and its trees, became a mysterious region of am- 
bushes and hatred. As he approached the frontier, he ex- 
perienced a feeling of anxiety and anguish. It was a new 
and deep feeling — one full of repulsion, mystery, intoxica- 
tion. For the first time he understood how much he was 
bound to the earth, this red and fertile soil, to the fatherland, 
by secret living fibres. 

One or two gunshots in the distance — scouts or vedettes 
were they who were firing? — resounded in his heart. He 
entered into a special atmosphere. At last Forbach was 
reached. The railway skirted the whole length of the town. 
The presence there of the headquarters of the 2nd corps filled 
the small and usually silent streets with agitation. Men, 
carriages, and horses crowded the squares. 

The train stopped. Everybody got out. 

As soon as he arrived he made some inquiries. An orderly 
officer, whom he met at the station exit, was able to give him 
the information he required. On the previous evening the 
2nd corps had carried out the movement ordered for the 
morning, and the troops occupied their new camp. They 
were expecting to be attacked any minute. Headquarters 
were still at Forbach. Du Breuil would be certain to find 
General Frossard there. 

He took the road leading to the town, and when on the 
way met a squadron of dragoons. Sitting bolt upright on 
their mud-covered horses, with their stiffened sheepskins, 
their white cloaks turned to a dirty yellow, their rusty scab- 
bards, their long moustaches drooping down under their 
tarnished helmets, they had the air of a horde of barbarians. 
The storm had left traces of its passage on the road. Du 
Breuil bestrode large puddles and rivulets of water. Every 
yard he met single soldiers or small detachments of men with 
soiled coats and kepis knocked out of shape by the rain. All 
wore a martial air; all were full of confidence and high 
spirits. A dense roseate fog was disappearing in the sun. 


THE DISASTER. 


97 


How long the night must have been under the small tents 
for all these brave fellows sleeping on the uplands and in the 
valleys, in the midst of the darkness impregnated with 
water! He thought to himself of the black hours, inter- 
rupted by showers and squalls, the disturbed sleep, the damp- 
ness, the cold, and the gloomy awakening on the sticky earth 
in the pale morning. . . . He entered the town at eight 
o’clock, as General Frossard and his staff were about to leave. 

“ Hullo, Du Breuil! ” cried Major Laisne. 

They had known each other during the Italian campaign. 
Laisne wasn’t a bit changed. He was the same tall, dry man, 
with an enormous nose and moustache resembling a cat’s 
whiskers. 

“ And what are you going to do here ? ” he asked. 

Special mission. I want to see your General.” 

General Frossard, wrapped in a hooded cloak, appeared on 
the threshold of the Bouc d’Or. He advanced upon seeing 
Du Breuil, inquiry in his look. . . . He was quite another 
man to the guest at the dinner at Saint-Cloud ; one felt that 
here was a leader, a man with a responsible intelligence, 
engaged in a struggle with events and the unknown. Du 
Breuil read the particulars which he had brought. The 
General nodded his head. 

Arrange with Laisne about the position of the troops. I 
took upon myself to commence the movement yesterday. It 
was time.” 

There was the sound of a horse galloping over the paving- 
stones. A Second Lieutenant in the Light Artillery reined 
up sharp before the decorated group and saluted, his hand on 
a level with his talpack. 

“ Columns of the enemy’s infantry, preceded by lines of 
sharp-shooters, are descending the heights of Sarrebriick. 
Squadrons of Uhlans and cuirassiers are advancing along the 
road ; they can be seen distinctly from the spur of Spickeren.” 

Du Breuil was questioning Major Laisne, who consulted 
some notes and unfolded a map. 

“ You will understand better. . . . There is Sarrebriick, 
where we were yesterday; here is our position to-day. You 
see, we are at the base of a triangle, of which Sarrebriick 
is the apex; the Sarre to the east is one of the sides, and 
the railway with the Saint- Avoid road on the west is the 
other ” 


98 


THE DISASTER. 


“Yes, yes; I know the country! ” exclaimed Du Breuil. 

And upon the map, striated with fine hatchings, he saw 
the configuration of the district as upon a plan in relief — 
the heights of Spickeren, its wooded slopes descending on 
the right to Saint- Arnual and the Sarre, on the left to For- 
bach and the road. 

In the centre of the Rotheberg was the spur advanoing 
into the valley which separates Spickeren and Sarrebriick. 
To the left, on a spur of the forest of Forbach the tall chim- 
neys of the Styring iron-works. Then, further back, was the 
plain of (Etingen, and that of Cadenbronn, the culminating 
point in this mountainous whole. 

“ The 3rd division, Laveaucoupet,” continued Laisne, 
pointing out on the map some small red marks, “ are in two 
lines on the plain of Spickeren, facing north. His battalion 
of chasseurs occupies the spur, which has been fortified. The 
valley and the road can be commanded from there, and a 
downward fire can be directed to the ground before Styring. 
. . . The 2nd division, Bataille, is in reserve at (Etingen. 
The 1st, under the command of Verge, is in the plain. For- 
bach, the head of our railway, our materiel^ our supplies, 
must be defended. The Jolivet brigade covers Styring. The 
Valaze brigade to the west of the town on the Kaninchens- 
berg, commands the road and Sarrelouis.” 

Du Breuil wrote accordingly in his pocket-book. 

“ That being so,” he said, “ you will be able to stoutly 
await attack. Besides, the 3rd corps is not far off.” 

A telegram from the Emperor, which was sent to the gen- 
eral staff two nights before, had, in fact, ordered Marshal 
Bazaine to remove the Decaen division with the head- 
quarters and reserves to Saint- Avoid, the Methan division to 
Marientoual, the Montaudon division to Sarreguemines, 
and the Castagny division to Puttelange. All these points 
were not more than fifteen or sixteen kilometres from For- 
bach. 

A rumbling was heard. 

“ Cannon,” murmured Laisne nervously. . . . “Aw revoir, 
my dear fellow. I must leave you.” 

“ And what’s become of Deresse ? ” asked Du Breuil, as 
Laisne moved towards his horse, a beautiful chestnut. 

The whole staff mounted on horseback. 

“Wounded at the Sarrebriick attack. . . . You didn’t 


THE DISASTER. 


99 


know? . . . Ball in his stomach. . . . He’s at the ambulance 
here. ... You can see him. . . .” 

He lowered his voice. General Frossard passed before 
them — silent, his eyes fixed, his thoughts elsewhere. He 
moved away, with bent head, at a walking pace upon a large 
bay thoroughbred, followed by his cortege of indifferent 
officers who laughed and conversed in a low voice about one 
thing and another. 

An inhabitant, to whom Hu Breuil made an inquiry about 
the ambulance, offered to guide him. 

Heresse! On the way he called up the never-to-be-for- 
gotten silhouette of the old officer who had grown gray in 
the service of his country, adored by his men, severe and good, 
with his imperial already turning gray, his high bald fore- 
head and his pure eyes. Truly, a man of duty! Heresse 
wounded ! A feeling of revolt against the blind bullet which 
had struck him, the injustice of fate, came over him. Why 
this man rather than another? His heart beat fast upon 
reaching the ambulance. 

But there were only some soldiers and two non-com- 
missioned officers there. Hu Breuil felt the eyes of one of 
them, a small, beardless, pale-faced sergeant, fixed upon his 
gold shoulder-knots — a hostile look in which there was a 
mixture of curiosity and raillery. One of his legs had been 
amputated, and he was smoking quite philosophically. By 
his side was a gigantic Westphalian Uhlan, whose cheeks had 
been pierced by a bullet, and who was now dying with a con- 
vulsive rattle in his throat. At the bottom of the room Hu 
Breuil saw the broad back of a man in a cassock bending over 
a soldier, who was turning his head away in fierce silence. 

“ M. 1’ Abbe ! ” he exclaimed. 

The priest turned. A frank smile lit up his face. That 
broad back, that jovial bearing. ... Hu Breuil recognised 
the Abbe Trudaine, whom he had met a fortnight before in 
the lobbies of the Ministry of War. 

“Ah, Major! Happy to see you again.” 

He had succeeded in getting his services accepted as 
assistant-chaplain to the 2nd corps. He had bought a small 
vehicle and a horse, stocked his boxes with provisions, and 
with this equipage followed the troops, distributing Liebig’s 
beef-tea, medals which had been blessed by the Pope, and 
chocolate. . . . His pockets bulged with packets of tobacco. 


100 


THE DISASTER. 


While he was talking to Du Breuil, he gave three of them to 
soldiers who had been slightly wounded, suddenly stopped 
before a window from which could be seen the distant woods, 
black against the blue sky, sighed, “ They are in ambush 
there,” and concluded by asking the Major in what way he 
could be of service to him. 

He gave an exclamation at the name of Deresse. The 
Colonel was being nursed at a private house, that of M. 
Schneiber, very decent people, glue manufacturers. He was 
just going there. On the way he again pointed out the 
woods, with their heavy, impenetrable blackness; at night- 
time sinister flashes of light could be seen there. They were 
swarming with Prussians. 

“ A single shell fired from there and it’s all up with the 
ambulance. I’ve warned the General. Do you know what he 
said to me in reply ? ‘ Get to your patients, M. 1’ Abbe, and 
leave us to our cannon ! ’ ” 

With a bitterness which Du Breuil thought very comical, 
he branched out into military questions. A dull explosion 
resounded, then a second one, and a third. A confused rum- 
bling could be heard. The Abbe Trudaine listened. . . . 
Hot a sound more. . . . Perhaps it was thunder. . . . He 
rang the bell at a gate grown over by large violet clematis. 
A thickset, red-haired young man, with an intelligent air, 
opened the door. The Abbe introduced him : “ M. Schneiber 
junior.” . . . The Colonel wasn’t any better; he hadn’t closed 
his eyes since noon. 

There was a small and very neat gravelled courtyard, four 
lime-trees, a border of grass and geranium plants, a large 
vase made of blue glass; the house was freshly plastered, 
the flight of steps leading up to the door was made of 
enamelled bricks, and the house had green shutters. The 
whole gave an impression of composure, silence, and the 
provinces. 

Colonel Deresse was stretched in the middle of a bed in a 
fine bedroom on the first-floor, facing the window open to the 
sun and the pure air. He had not changed. There was the 
same high bald forehead and blue eyes. But he was horribly 
pale, and his imperial also was white. He recognised Du 
Breuil, smiled at him pleasantly and pressed his hand. The 
sinister rumbling in the distance recommenced. Everybody 
turned towards the window and listened. An expression of 


THE DISASTER. 


101 


sadness came into the eyes of' the wounded man. Then he 
said in a low but distinct voice : 

“ They are fighting.” 

With sudden precision Du Breuil again beheld events of 
which he had never thought during the past ten years: the 
morning of the fight of Buffalora, the solicitude with which 
Deresse had fed his men — “ his children ” — at dawn, his 
grave, attentive face from the time firing was commenced, and 
his restrained sorrow when the first men were wounded. . . . 

As though he had read his thoughts, Deresse said : 

“ It was my turn. . . . Come, friend, I am resigned. The 
bullet which kills us is cast for all eternity. Our only duty 
is to be ready.” 

The low rumbling in the blue sky commenced again. 
Deresse, exhausted, closed his eyes. Du Breuil left the room 
on tip-toe, followed by the Abbe Trudaine and M. Schneiber. 
The last-named had an astonishing resemblance to his son, 
only he was stouter, and his hair was gray. Downstairs a 
servant was laying some luncheon on a corner of the table in 
the dining-room — a smoking omelette, brown bread, creamy 
butter pearled with water, and Lorraine sausage. The sun 
was shining full into the courtyard, bathing the fresh grass 
and the brilliant red of the geraniums in a warm light. A 
light covered cart, its shafts in the air, was standing in the 
middle, and through the open door of a stable could be seen 
young Schneiber harnessing a solid little roan pony. 

In the distance — the Abbe Trudaine said from the direc- 
tion of Spickeren — the cannonade became brisker. 

“ A regular battle,” said M. Schneiber. 

Du Breuil was so impatient he could not hold himself 
still. He gazed at the horizon. He went to the window and 
came back, with every now and then a remark thrown in. 

“ My son is like yourself. Major. As soon as he hears the 
cannon, it is stronger than himself. I’ve reasoned with him, 
but off he goes. He prowls about in the neighbourhood of the 
warmest part of the fight. And then one never knows. Some- 
times one can do some good — carry off a wounded sol- 
dier. . . .” 

The horse was between the shafts, and luncheon was 
ready. 

If you have a mind. Major, have a bit of something to 
eat, and the youngster will drive you.” 


102 


THE DISASTER. 


CHAPTER IV. 

One hour afterwards the light covered cart ascended the 
steep slope of the Kreutzberg. Sitting by the side of young 
Schneiber, Du Breuil had kept his ears well open, but not a 
sound was to be heard. The battle, however, had commenced. 
When he was leaving he had met near the railway-station an 
officer of the staff who had just taken a telegram from Gen- 
eral Erossard to Marshal Bazaine to the telegraph-office, an- 
nouncing the battle, and asking for assistance. The struggle 
was at Spickeren. 

It was eleven o’clock. The road wound up the mountain 
between thick underwood, its dense thickets with tree-trunks 
crowded together, and black foliage rising up on each side. 
The deep-blue, cloudless sky w^as stretched far above like a 
canopy. The weather was hot; not a sound could be heard. 
Some insects only flew round and round in the heavy atmos- 
phere. The grass on the slopes was motionless. 

This silence in the long-run was disquieting. Doubtless, 
when the top of the hill was reached, something would be 
heard. . . . Du Breuil was astonished to think he was on this 
road, seated in a cart, a few kilometres from the battle-field. 
When his mission was accomplished, why had he not taken 
the train again? Bah! he was just as well there as in his 
office at Metz. . . . He might even make himself useful, take 
back some fresh information to headquarters. . . . And, then, 
this itching for action, this need of knowledge! . . . He had 
no difficulty in convincing himself that by remaining he was, 
in short, only doing his duty. 

Why did they hear nothing more ? Perhaps the wind had 
changed, or the mountain intercepted the sound. . . . They 
had just reached the top of the Kreutzberg. The road turned 
sharply. Immediately there broke upon their ears, at first 
muffled, and then distinctly, the roar of the battle. The view 
in front was still restricted by a bend in the road, and at each 
side by woody slopes ; there was nothing but deep verdure and 
blue sky. But at the turning, on the declivity which rose 
towards them in a straight line, Du Breuil saw some horses 
harnessed to artillery caissons pass at full speed, amid a cloud 
of dust. They were headed by a quartermaster; the drivers 
were leaning forward on their horses’ necks, urging them for- 


THE DISASTER. 


103 


ward with blows from their whips, the heavy vehicles rolling 
along with a tremendous noise — a convoy without ammuni- 
tion, which was doubtless going to Forbach to get a fresh 
stock. . . . They passed some estafettes proceeding at a gal- 
lop; peasants who were driving before them troops of sheep 
and oxen; carts filled with furniture, tables, chairs, mat- 
tresses, articles thrown pele-mele. Their cart passed a file 
of ammunition waggons loaded with bread. The ofiicer under 
whose guidance they were had a very troubled look in his 
face. The cannon roared with violence. The small escort 
of fatigue-duty men, guns in their hands, cursed as they 
tramped alongside the vehicles. 

On the low side of the road, to the left, a staff officer, 
carrying some despatch or other, was sweeping forward upon 
his horse with slackened rein. He cried out : “ Get out of 
the way — get out of the way ! ” Du Breuil only had time to 
catch a glimpse of his red face. They reached Etzling. 
As they were about to leave the main road to strike out 
northwards to Spickeren by way of a road through the wood, 
Schneiber recognised one of his cousins, M. Briand, an in- 
habitant of Forbach, in a break drawn up on the square fa- 
cing the church. M. Briand brought triumphant news from 
Sarreguemines. Since morning it had been persistently 
rumoured that MacMahon had gained a great victory. It 
was the revenge of Wissemberg. The Marshal had over- 
come the army of the Prince Royal, and taken forty thou- 
sand prisoners. . . . M. Briand, carried away with joy, 
waved his cap, crying, “ Long live France ! ” 

The cart moved towards Spickeren, from the plateau of 
which could be seen the red roofs of the village, and the 
Geneva flag floating from the top of the church. It was a 
district of deep ravines, steep slopes, hills, and everywhere, 
in the hollows and on the heights, black woods intersecting 
the red furrows of the cultivated soil with dense underwood. 
Du Breuil listened with pride to the increasing uproar of 
the struggle. The sun was resplendent in his eyes; the 
azure became light, and Victory passed through it, beating 
the pure air with her quivering wing. Frossard was perhaps 
going to follow up MacMahoffis splendid success. That 
news was a good omen. ... It might, of course, be lessened 
in importance; but what matter? It warmed the heart. 

Suddenly, on the hill to the right, he saw two regiments 
8 


104 : 


THE DISASTER. 


of the line massed in battalions. They were waiting, their 
rifles at rest, for their turn to enter the fight. With their 
knapsacks on their backs, motionless, the men conversed. 
Far into the distance waved the line of blue coats and red 
trousers. Du Breuil contemplated with emotion this mov- 
ing string of faces, this long and quivering line of flesh, 
possessed of thought and life. At times a joke would travel 
the whole length of the ranks, causing a ripple of laughter. 
Some of the men who were nervous looked straight before 
them, mechanically biting their moustaches, stamping the 
ground; others, who were resigned, waited in silence. 

Tents were still erected around the village; camp effects 
were lying pele mele near overturned pans; the fires were 
dying out; the streets were filled with troops. Before the 
Mayor’s residence and the church, which had been trans- 
formed into temporary hospitals, were stationed the division- 
ary ambulances. It was impossible to advance. The roads 
leading to the plateau where the Micheler Brigade was fight- 
ing were crowded with foot soldiers, horse soldiers, artillery- 
men ; there was a constant coming and going of infirmary at- 
tendants, with their stretchers, an incessant flow of ammuni- 
tion-waggons. Empty battery caissons came to be refilled at 
the reserve ammunition-waggons. Bullets whistled down the 
streets. A horse harnessed to a canteen carriage was fright- 
ened by the increasing noise of musketry, and bolted, the 
heavy vehicle disappearing in the direction of the woods in 
the midst of the shrill cries of the women. . . . 

Du Breuil wished at all cost to see how the fight was pro- 
gressing. He thought of the church tower. What a splendid 
idea! And while young Schneiber was putting up his cart 
in the courtyard of a wine-merchant, he entered the church, 
which was commencing to fill with wounded, stretched upon 
chairs, benches, or upon the ground, their heads resting 
against steps, their breasts bare, covered with blood. Sisters 
of Charity and some women were bathing their wounds witli 
water, and binding them up with lint. The leader of a band 
acted as doctor, his only remedy being a bottle of smelling- 
salts. Complaints and sighs mingled in a single groan, 
which followed Du Breuil to the end of his ascent. When 
he had mounted the staircase, he succeeded, by means of his 
crampoons, in hoisting himself, white with dust and cov- 
ered with cobwebs, to the topmost luthern. 


THE DISASTER. 


105 


He could not refrain from a cry of astonishment. Before 
him, in the foreground, was stretched out under the sun, 
and in the midst of smoke, the Spickeren plateau, with its 
woods, its glades, its fields, and its ravines. Everywhere was 
a blue and red movement of soldiers. He could distinguish 
the sharpshooters spread out, and the denser lines of the 
companies. Black helmets moved from the side of the 
forest of Saint- Armal. Every second the batteries belched 
forth flame and were enveloped in small clouds of smoke 
which were quickly dispersed in the immense red, floating 
cloud which here and there mounted skywards. Beyond the 
Spur, the opposite side of the valley, with its distant slopes 
rising one above the other to the heights of the Galgensberg 
and the Keppertsberg, was every now and then visible, when 
the wind rose. 

German batteries crowned these heights with a circle of 
fire, and there could be seen the black columns of the in- 
fantry descending on the right and left with a circular move- 
ment towards the woods. A crowd of helmets was also in 
movement more to the left on the ground lying before Styr- 
ing. His eyes were riveted on this living landscape. At 
certain charges, more violent than usual, the whole 
church tower vibrated, and the acrid smell of powder was so 
strong that it produced a sensation of choking. Amid con- 
fused noise he distinguished far-off calls, cries of rage and 
triumph, supreme commands, the complaints of the dying. 

A view of the Spur was partly hidden by a small wood. 
Du Breuil was able, however, by means of his field-glass to 
make out an unusual movement at that spot. He saw some 
foot-soldiers out of breath; heard cries of joy. Was it pos- 
sible ? Pointed helmets were glittering in the first entrench- 
ment. What were the vitriers * thinking about ? However, 
the 10th battalion of Chasseurs was there. Suddenly, after 
a long hand-to-hand fight, the wavering line retreated, and 
took shelter in the second intrenchment. But it again 
rushed forward and captured the Spur. Hot a pointed hel- 
met was to be seen. A cloud of smoke blocked out the view. 
In a minute, however, it had gone, and Du Breuil beheld in 


* These were the so-called Chasseurs de Vincennes. They originally 
took their name because of their polished leather coats, which shone in the 
sunlight as though made of glass, vitrier meaning ordinarily a mender of 
windows. — F. L. 


106 


THE DISASTER. 


consternation that in the place of the Chasseurs was a black, 
moving mass. Were these Prussians mad? 

Three o’clock struck. Du Breuil was intoxicated, and 
had lost all notion of time or place. Almost unconsciously 
he descended and found himself in the square. A General 
and his staff were standing under a quincunx of trees in the 
shade. Two escort hussars were in charge of the snorting 
horses, their flanks hollow. Not being able to And any grass, 
they threw back their heads and shoulders so as to crop the 
low branches, masticating their bits, the leaves and the 
froth. Du Breuil recognised General Doens. They had 
only time to exchange a couple of words. One of General 
Laveaucoupet’s Aides-de-camp galloped up, his face, down 
which perspiration was pouring, covered with dust, his horse 
bleeding. He asked for three battalions. 

Du Breuil went in search of his cart. Some foot-soldiers 
were filing past at a quick-step. They had deposited their 
knapsacks, and were walking cheerfully along, their rifles 
on their shoulders. Order ! Order ! ” repeated an old 
Captain, in a fatherly tone. A battery of mitrailleuses went 
by at a quick trot. He could see nothing of the cart. Sud- 
denly a riderless horse, its reins hanging loose, charged down 
a street. The animal drew up sharp on its four hoofs and 
neighed loudly. Its flank, wet with perspiration, moved up 
and down like a blacksmith’s bellows. Without a moment’s 
thought Du Breuil leapt into the saddle. An officer’s cloak 
was on the cantle. In the holsters were a revolver and some 
maps. The poor beast had a large gash, from which blood 
was flowing, at the juncture of the neck and the shoulders. 

The horse again neighed upon receiving the spur, and 
dashed off over the cultivated land in the direction of the 
plateau. Horse and rider were carried away by a furious 
madness. Du Breuil no longer retained possession of him- 
self. Amid the bullets and the smoke he thus for a long 
time galloped on, crossed a ravine, jumped over tree-trunks, 
ditches, advanced and withdrew as though in a dream, in the 
very vortex of the melee. Whether this ride lasted a quarter 
of an hour or a century he had not the faintest idea. When 
he recovered consciousness, he was astonished to find him- 
self, sword in hand, charging with the staff of General La- 
veaucoupet, whose gold-embroidered kepi he distinguished 
ten metres away. The Prussians were trying to extricate 


THE DISASTER. 


107 


themselves from a wood. A running fire crepitated. But 
with savage cries the two battalions, headed by their officers, 
rushed madly forward brandishing their bayonets. They 
commenced to run, and Du Breuil felt himself at once drawn 
on by enthusiasm, and pushed forward by an irresistible 
force. The enemy gave way, followed by the maddened 
foot-soldiers. 

He was then able to disengage himself, replace his sword 
in its scabbard, and slowly, because his horse vas halting, 
to take the Spickeren road again. He tried to collect his 
ideas, but when he arrived before the church, ho was still 
asking himself what motive he had obeyed. At that moment 
his horse fell dead. It had a splinter of a shell in its breast. 

Fortunately, Schneiber, who was anxious, appeared on the 
scene. He had been looking for a long time for Du Breuil. 
. . . What time was it? Only four o’clock. The cart was 
ready. They set off again, but made little progress, being 
obliged almost at every yard to alter their course. The 
narrow streets were obstructed by vehicles in disorder. It 
was necessary to proceed through a confused mass of peas- 
ants, people in flight, and wounded soldiers who were lying 
upon straw, and were being carried to Forbach by cart- 
loads. Every minute there were crushes among the people. 
Chasseurs and dragoons passed at a gallop with a volley of 
oaths. Further on were four sappers carrying a stretcher 
made of some tent canvas and four chassepots, upon which 
was stretched the rigid body of an officer. His coat and 
shirt were open, revealing a gaping wound in his breast. 
Du Breuil recognised by the pale face, the suffering eyes of 
which were open beyond all measure, a Colonel whom he had 
formerly met, but whose name he could not call to mind. 
Instinctively he rose, and, as a last homage, raised his hand 
to his kepi and made the military salute. 

His fever fell, and he remained stunned, demoralized, 
tired. The din of the battle behind them was abated, but, 
as if in revenge, it increased to the right. There were two 
distinct actions there. Those cursed helmets! He had re- 
cently seen them from the church tower. They were swarm- 
ing in the Styring neighbourhood. The day was evidently 
undecided. Why didn’t the Bataille division enter into 
line? And the 3rd corps? It was doubtless coming to the 
rescue. Du Breuil imagined the fresh troops setting out in 


108 


THE DISASTER. 


haste from their four bivouacs, and reaching the cannon by 
forced marches. 

The road divided into two, the light cart turning to the 
right into the wood in the direction of the Forbacherberg. 
Du Breuil and Schneiber turned round. A stifled voice 
called to them. A mounted gendarme had issued forth from 
a small covered pathway, and stood, bareheaded and his coat 
unbuttoned, at the cross-roads, crying with the air of one 
who has lost his way: “ Where is General Frossard? ” Then, 
without waiting for a reply, he set off again like a madman 
in the direction of Spickeren. The road wound up the hill- 
side between the underwood of the Spickeren- Wald, which 
was full of troops. A Captain, whose company bordered the 
declivity, told Du Breuil that the Breme-d’Or and Baraque 
Mouton had just been captured. The remainder of the bat- 
talion was there — he pointed to the slopes of the Forbacher- 
berg. 

“ Be easy in your mind,” he said ; “ we shall block up the 
road.” 

The men, black with powder, their uniforms in disorder, 
covered with soil, blood, and dust, were standing, seated, and 
lying down, taking breath. Some were cleaning their guns; 
'Others were taking bread from their knapsacks, for they had 
not had anything to eat on the previous night. 

The road descended perpendicularly. The small roan 
pony refused to advance. It was necessary to get out of the 
cart. The crackling of musketry, the regular report of vol- 
leys from the rifles, the dry rattle of the mitrailleuses, the 
roll of the cannon, could distinctly be heard. The Breme- 
d’Or captured? . . . That meant that the Forbach road was 
open. Fortunately, the road was commanded from the 
heights. . . . Spent bullets whistled on their way. Others 
cut the foliage of the trees. 

They reached the road. The confusion was indescribable. 
An overflowing river of people in flight; canteen-carriages 
and waggons flowed along ; infirmary attendants with stretch- 
ers; wounded soldiers perched on cacolets and upon ambu- 
lance carriages; inhabitants of Styring, mad with terror. 
Everywhere, on the road and on the slopes, were disbanded 
soldiers, old people and women with children clinging to 
their skirts. Some peasants were carrying straw mattresses 
on their heads, or dragging after them a. lamb or a calf 


THE DISASTER. 


109 


frightened by the tumult. Artillery and ammunition con- 
voys on their way to take part in the fight tried to reascend 
the current. Dominating the confusion was still that of the 
battle, which seemed to be thickest towards Styring. Det- 
onations succeeded each other without stopping. But how 
was the road to be crossed? 

Suddenly a platoon of cavalry, the escort of General 
Frossard came down the right side. Du Breuil hastily 
profited by the open passage to slip between and reach the 
other side, where the S tyring- Wendel joined. Alone, ahead 
of his staff, the General advanced at a walking pace upon his 
bay thoroughbred. A prey to destiny, he seemed to see 
nothing. His officers, behind him, silently spurred on their 
jaded horses. At the top of the Styring road the General, 
undecided, stopped. He took in with a look the valley, the 
woods, the high chimneys, and the ironworks, visible through 
the smoke. His eyes fell momentarily on Du Breuil, with- 
out recognising him, perhaps without even seeing him. And 
with the same somnambulistic step he again set off, trailing 
behind him his silent cortege. 

“ Laisne ! ” cried Du Breuil. 

The Major passed at his side. The officer turned his 
head, turned half round, at a bound leapt the embankment 
at the side of the road, and drew up near the cart. The ene- 
my was constantly receiving reinforcements ; everything was 
going badly. Our reserve division had joined the fight. 
Ground was being lost. And the 3rd corps did not ar- 
rive. . . . 

“ What can they be doing ? ” 

Laisne stifled an oath. His mare was angrily pawing the 
ground and pulling with all her force to be off again. The 
road had become transformed into a torrent of people. He 
made a farewell gesture, and disappeared at a gallop, skirt- 
ing the ditch. 

Geeho, Poulet ! ” The cart moved away. But after 
proceeding one hundred yards it was impossible to go any 
further. The road followed the edge of a wood, which was 
occupied by a battalion of the line, utilizing the embank- 
ment and the trees to direct a violent fire on the woods op- 
posite, to which the Prussians had been beaten back- Du 
Breuil jumped out and, as he wished to push on towards 
Styring, persuaded Schneiber to put up his vehicle in the 


110 


THE DISASTER. 


underwood. A quarter of an hour afterwards he entered the 
works. The tall furnaces had been lit, and the machinery 
was rumbling. The workmen were going backwards and 
forwards as though nothing abnormal was happening. The 
village, however, was the centre of resistance. To the right 
and left, in front of the houses, regiments and batteries were 
mingled, making a last effort. Alt-Styring was captured. 
The Prussians streamed in from all sides. 

General Bataille and General Verge were on horseback, 
standing at the entrance to the courtyard. Du Breuil saw 
them consult together for a moment, then General Bataille, 
sword in hand, reached the left of the village. Immediately 
the whole of the 67th of the line rushed forward with fixed 
bayonets and bugles blowing, the three battalions dashing 
into the woods. 

Du Breuil, attracted by a groan behind him, turned his 
head. He was about to bend over the wounded man, a little 
artillery Lieutenant whose right leg was shattered, when 
cries rang out. On the ground swept by the charge three 
cannon, abandoned in the morning, were in battery. A 
fresh groan made him start. The wounded man, his head 
resting against the jamb of the door, moved. He raised him- 
self on his elbow, and Du Breuil, following the direction of 
his look, saw him fixedly contemplating the abandoned 
cannon. 

‘‘ My guns . . he murmured in despair. “ My guns ! ” 
But a Major, followed by some officers and a dozen men — 
artillerymen and foot-soldiers — spurred their horses straight 
towards them. Under a storm of bullets they reached the 
guns, leapt to the ground, hooked them on again, and set off 
at a gallop. 

“ Bravo ! ” cried Du Breuil ; while the little Lieutenant, 
with a smile of ecstasy, fell back again in a faint. 

“Fire! fire!” cries of alarm were heard. The works 
were commencing to blaze. Big columns of white smoke 
whirled above the roofs, mingling with the black tops of the 
tall chimneys. The flames burst forth and leapt skywards. 
The remaining workmen fled in dismay. Du Breuil was 
about to move away, when he saw a compact group — General 
Verge, General Frossard and his staff — standing before the 
door. 

He approached, and Laisne came to him. 


THE DISASTER. 


Ill 


“ It’s going badly up there.” 

The last news received from Spickeren was disastrous: 
the maddened enemy was always increasing in numbers; 
Laveaucoupet had entered the fight to the last man, losses 
were heavy, the divisioil was exhausted; General Doens was 
killed. . . . 

“ Killed ! ” exclaimed Du Breuil. “ But I only spoke to 
him half an hour ago.” 

As he again saw the brave man full of life, his heart was 
oppressed. A Lieutenant of dragoons, his helmet dinted, 
his epaulettes torn off, dashed up at full speed and asked 
for General Frossard. He was pointed out to him. In a 
broken voice the officer explained that an entire Prussian 
division was advancing on the Sarrelouis road. Colonel 
Dulac’s two divisions and the company of Engineers could 
no longer hold out. The Kaninchensberg was about to be 
evacuated. 

Consternation was depicted on every face. Forbach cap- 
tured, the extreme left turned — it was the coup de grace! 
The day was irreparably lost. General Frossard ought at 
the commencement of the action to have sent the brigade 
charged to protect the town to the assistance of General 
Verge. He had now no men left in reserve. It was only 
by sheer heroism that the three decimated divisions were 
holding out. Hour after hour the Prussians increased in 
strength. Ko news of the 3rd corps. It was incomprehen- 
sible. Laisne did not mince matters in his explanation. De- 
spatch after despatch had been sent to Marshal Bazaine. 
Nothing ! The scoundrel that he was! He was voluntarily 
leaving the 2nd corps to be crushed. Du Breuil’s thoughts 
were too deep for words. 

General Frossard finished giving his orders. They caught 
a few words : “ Retreat ... by the ridges. . . .” The mus- 
ketry became less intense. Night was commencing to fall. 
A suffocating heat came from the burning works. And 
•while the dejected group disappeared in the fog with its 
platoon escort, Du Breuil watched the day as it died in its 
immense shroud of mist, stained as though by blood by the 
sun and the fire. 

There was a movement at the head of the troops. A few 
battalions commenced to retreat. And immediately from 
the murderous circle of woods, from the heights of the 


112 


THE DISASTER. 


Folster-Hohe came a storm of shots. With renewed force the 
Prussian attack recommenced. 

Two artillerymen helped Du Breuil to carry the wounded 
Lieutenant to the cart. Schneiber, his hands blackened with 
powder, threw aside the rifle he had picked up, and leading 
Poulet by the bridle, the main-road was quickly rejoined. 
It must have been seven o’clock. A strong wind whistled 
through the tall poplars. The sinister twilight was gath- 
ering. 

Every yard the road was strewn with arms, clothing, knap- 
sacks; and as the vehicle jolted over them, the wounded 
Lieutenant, still in a dead faint, gave forth long sighs, a 
very low complaint as of a child. Du Breuil Anally heard 
him no rhore. His ears humming with the decreasing noise 
of the struggle, his temples circled by an atrocious head- 
ache, he furiously ruminated over his powerlessness. On a 
level with him, moving in the same reflux, a retreating com- 
pany was plodding along. These men were beaten! Come! 
There was madness in their eyes. Dog-tired, black, torn, 
superb — they proceeded still with active step. Beaten! Was 
it possible? . . . They branched off to the left, reaching the 
heights. 

The cart now moved alongside a file of bare-headed, 
weaponless, disbanded Light Infantry soldiers. Intoxicated 
with fatigue and hunger, they sang at the top of their voices : 

“ Le General Frossard 
N’est qu’un sal’rossard ! ” 

They chuckled when they saw Du Breuil’s rank. Hight 
had come. Still the cart rolled on, moving by the side of 
women, carriages full of wounded, waggons and canteen car- 
riages. Du Breuil, cut to the heart, turned round. A shrill, 
strident cry ground out the words : “ To Berlin ! To Ber- 
lin!” Who was jeering in this manner? With a sobbing 
laugh the hoarse voice again cried : “ To Berlin ! To Ber- 
lin ! ” What recollections these words called up ! And on the 
top of a canteen-carriage, its claws fastened with string to its 
perch, Du Breuil saw a green parrot, bristling all over, 
screaming aloud and flapping its wings. 

A few hundred yards to the right came the crackling of 
musketry. An indescribable panic, a free fight, a rush to 
safety amid the cries of stifled women, was the result. Then 


THE DISASTER. 


113 


the red lights of the station came in sight. The terrified 
crowd crushed into the waiting-rooms; children and old 
people rushed the whole length of the platform. Long yellow 
flashes were seen on the Kaninchensberg. Then there was 
a report, and in the black sky shells burst above the town. 
Far afield the S tyring ironworks cast immense gleams, and 
quite near the railway-station the furious musketry was re- 
commenced. 

The last train had left. Only an engine remained on the 
line. Du Breuil requested the station-master to immediately 
set off; he would travel with the stoker and the driver. The 
whistle blew. The line was clear. In the midst of cries and 
maledictions the heavy locomotive commenced to move. 
Greeted with a storm of bullets, it proceeded at full speed. 
As it skirted the woods, swarming with Prussians, they pep- 
pered it with grape-shot. Forbach, where a few houses were 
burning, was hidden by a curtain of flame and smoke, and as 
far as the star-dotted zenith large moving clouds unrolled 
their ruddy scrolls, spotted with flakes of fire and sparks. 

It was a lamentable return, interrupted every minute by 
stoppages before signals, backward movements along the line, 
shuntings and danger whistles. The railway-stations were 
blocked. Between Bening and Bosbriick they met the long 
file of carriages of an infantry train. In the brief gleam of 
the lamps in the compartments, packed with sleeping men, 
appeared faces upon which were expressions of waiting, fa- 
tigue, and fever, like those seen in a dream. And as each 
carriage passed on its way, Du Breuil repeated to himself: 
“ Too late ! too late ! too late ! ” 

Saint- A void . . . Faulquemont . . . Courcelles. . . . Seated 
upon a heap of coal, his head buried in his hands, he now 
wept bitterly, convulsed with sobbing and with a terrible 
relaxation of his whole being, while the stoker and the driver, 
moved to pity, looked at him in silence. 

Metz — at last ! He mechanically took the road leading to 
the Prefecture. The news of the disaster was known. The 
cafes were overflowing. The streets were black with people. 
There reigned an impression of stupor. An anxious crowd 
had collected before the gates of the building. He crossed 
the small crowded courtyard and entered the rooms on the 
ground-floor. He could hardly see the chief of the staff for 
a moment to inform him in a few words of occurrences. 


114 


THE DISASTER. 


. . . A piece of news otherwise terrible had just been made 
known. Marshal de MacMahon had been crushed on the 
same day at Woerth. The Army of the Vosges no longer 
existed. 


CHAPTER V. 

The night, the morning of the 7th were inexpressible. 
The state of excitement at the Prefecture and at headquar- 
ters was at its height. Men’s faculties had been seized with 
dizziness, and their wills were paralyzed. The two defeats 
took the proportion of disasters; people imagined they could 
see the black columns of Prussians invading the country, 
swarming over it, incessant streams of helmeted foot-soldiers, 
shining cannon, red-haired cavalrymen astride tall, thin 
horses. Alsace and Lorraine were open at a blow by two 
gaping wounds. 

No more news had been heard of the 2nd corps, except that 
it was beating a retreat, worn out with fatigue and hunger. 
MacMahon’s defeat was confirmed. He had been crushed. 
Hardly five divisions against the Prince Royal’s ten! He 
had massed his men on the Froeschwiller heights, covering 
the Niederbronn outlet, by which the 5th corps was awaited 
in vain. The third Prussian army, crossing the Sauer, had 
captured Woerth in the centre, Froeschwiller on our left, 
and driven the Marshal on Reischoffen. The cuirassiers, to 
save the retreat, had charged and been annihilated. The 
vanquished and disunited troops had moved on Saverne. 
Only one division of the 7th corps, which was shut up in 
Belfort, was left to protect Alsace. The passes of the Vosges 
were open to the enemy. 

Despatches had poured in in the morning, and people 
thought they could hear the tocsin of the affrighted towns. 
Upon the arrival of the fleeing soldiers and stragglers there 
was a panic at Strasburg, as well as at Verdun and at Thion- 
ville. Metz, Verdun, Montmedy, Longwy, Thionville, Bitch, 
Strasburg, Marsal, Toul and Belfort, were decided in a 
state of siege. Upon waking up in the morning, the people 
of Metz were able to read on the walls the telegrams which 


THE DISASTER. 


115 


betrayed the anxiety of the imperial Cabinet. The town was 
in a state of great agitation; crowds of people swarmed in 
the streets and on the squares. General Coffinieres de Nor- 
deck, appointed Governor, organized battalions of the Na- 
tional Guard, decided upon the way officers should be ap- 
pointed, postponed the municipal elections, took steps in 
regard to the presence of foreigners of German birth. The 
maddened population clamoured for weapons. There were 
more than five thousand volunteers. Needle-guns in bad 
condition were distributed. Sedentary National Guardsmen 
were sent to the forts to participate with the militia in the 
supervision of the works, which were being put into a state 
of defence in great haste. Part of the Emperor’s equipages 
— horses, carriages, and baggage — dashed, in the meantime, 
in the direction of the railway-station. “ Retreat already, 
flight soon ” — the Chalons saying — passed from mouth to 
mouth. 

As it was decided to pass over to the left bank, Coffinieres 
was ordered to build as many bridges as possible over the 
Seille and Moselle. Canrobert, who had been ordered in haste 
to Metz, received a counter-order; Chalons remained the 
centre for the 6th corps. MacMahon, as well as De Eailly, 
who was disorganized before being beaten, rallied there. 

The 3rd and 4th corps commenced to fall back on Metz. 
In addition to the Guard, they were intact. But that was an 
additional cause of rancour to everybody. How was it that 
Bazaine, a responsible chief, had allowed his Lieutenant to 
be beaten without assisting him? According to some, he 
was envious of him ; he wished, others said, to let him win hie 
Marshal’s baton alone. Or did he himself fear attack at 
Saint- Avoid ? Whatever was the reason, there was no excuse 
for his conduct. Things were enveloped in a suspicious light, 
which allowed of all suppositions. “ It looks as though Ba- 
zaine was a traitor ! ” cried out one of the high personages 
of the imperial entourage. He had doubtless given orders, 
but too late; and by a singular fatality not one of the three 
divisions had succeeded in crossing the few miles which sepa- 
rated them from the battle-field. At Sarreguemines, Mon- 
taudon, who heard the Sarrebriick guns from noontime, was, 
however, waiting for orders, set off at four o’clock, and hardly 
accomplished his movement in the direction of the 2nd corps. 
Castagny, at Puttelange, marched in the direction of the 


116 


THE DISASTER. 


sound of the cannon, but soon, hearing nothing, stopped and, 
on the reassuring information of the peasants, retrograded. 
At five o’clock the cannon roared again, and there was a fresh 
alarm. Again they set off, and a brigade even entered For- 
bach in the middle of the night; but the battle had been lost 
a long time before. Finally, Metman, who set out from 
Marienthal, reached Bening (about four and a half miles 
from Forbach) at three o’clock. At half -past four o’clock 
a telegram from Frossard summoned him in all haste. He 
only set off again at six o’clock, and entered the town at nine 
o’clock to find it already evacuated. 

Du Breuil sat thinking, his forehead in his hands, his 
elbows resting upon his desk. The Forbach cannon still 
rolled in his ears ; the smoke of the batteries was in his eyes ; 
in his nostrils was the acrid smell of powder. A chaos of 
ardent images assailed him . . . the riderless horse, the little 
wounded Lieutenant at Styring, the guns carried into safety 
by the horses at a gallop, the retreat, the rout. . . . His 
thoughts always returned there. As though the humiliation 
of so many men was added to his own, he felt that his pride 
was wounded to the quick. He knew that there were col- 
lective griefs, the intensity of which surpassed the worst 
sufferings of the individual. He felt at that time that he 
was a Frenchman to the very marrow of his bones. At the 
thought of the cadenced step of the heavy boots of the enemy 
upon the soil of his native country, it seemed they were 
trampling upon his heart. The peaceful Kreutzberg road, 
with its green thickets, the flies circling round and round, 
the deep silence, everything which at that moment of waiting, 
so near the fight, had produced within him the deep love 
of the country which belongs to one, which one loves and 
cherishes, because it makes life worth living, and the small- 
est blade of grass, the least spot of earth of which possesses 
a thousand indefinite, deep-rooted interests, danced before 
him. Beaten! What a maddening thought! 

And they were retreating without fighting. Ladmirault, 
Bazaine, Bourbaki, Canrobert, were intact. Chalons, at a 
blow — Chalons, when they might have made Metz the centre. 
The army demoralized, and France open to the enemy. He 
felt himself possessed of all murderous tendencies and the 
madness of battle. Come, nothing was lost! They would 
lead these Germans back again. . . . Suddenly his heart was 


THE DISASTER. 


117 


filled with pity. He thought of the Bersheims, of Andre and 
Maurice, the Lieutenant of Cuirassiers and the Sergeant- 
Major of Zouaves. . . . Poor young men! 

A hand was laid on his shoulder. Colonel Laune had just 
called to him without his hearing. 

“ Hew movement orders. The troops will be taken to 
Saint- A void. The Chalons project is given up.” 

Du Breuil looked at him with a stupefied air. 

“ Yes,” continued Laune bitterly. “ There is no sequence 
in their ideas, but they are right this time. Retreat was 
disastrous. There is only one thing to do — fall vigorously 
upon the enemy with Bazaine, Ladmirault, and the Guard. 
. . .” He lowered his voice. “To think we have been beaten 
— beaten with such troops! Because, you know, the arm is 
strong. It is the head which is weak. ... We are in need 
of a man.” 

And this ofiicer, who hardly ever opened his heart, con- 
fided to Du Breuil that that very morning the first Deputy- 
Commandant-General, in a secret interview with the Em- 
peror, had begged him to resign the command and return 
to Paris. The Sovereign refused, as he did not wish to 
return to the capital except as a conqueror. The revolu- 
tionary press was already accusing him of being the cause 
of the war, and making him responsible for the public mis- 
fortunes. 

Straightening up his slight figure, and putting on a more 
self-willed air than ever, as though he was sorry for his ex- 
pansiveness, he added: 

“ Come, let us get to work. This isn’t the time for being 
downhearted.” 

Du Breuil took advantage of a moment’s liberty towards 
evening to pay a flying visit to the Bersheims. It was rain- 
ing, and the too frequent unpleasant weather made Metz, 
with its shining pavements, look still sadder. Part of the 
flags had been removed from the balconies of the houses. 
The oriflamme at the top of the cathedral hung down like 
a large piece of rag. Removing-vans and peasants’ carts 
were standing on all the squares. Fatigue-duty men, in gray 
blouses, were passing in the downpour with bent shoulders. 
A tall, bearded young man in spectacles, a kepi too small for 
him upon his head, and comically hampered by a sword-bayo- 
net, came out of a house and made the military salute. 


118 


THE DISASTER. 


“Ah, Major!” he exclaimed, in a moaning voice. 

Seeing Du Breuil’s look of astonishment, he stammered 
out that he had had the honour of taking luncheon with him 
at the Bersheims’. 

“ My name is Gustave — Gustave Le Martrois. Mme. 
Bersheim,” he announced, “ is very ill. Mother is with her. 
But there is nothing to prove that her sons are lost. . . 

On the threshold of the large gate they met Father 
Desroques, who bowed courteously. He had come for news. 
Sadness made his ardent physiognomy still more expres- 
sive. 

“ God help us ! ” he sighed. “ Never has faith been more 
necessary.” 

The glass door of the perron opened, and Bersheim, bare- 
headed, appeared. Upon recognising the newcomers, he 
rushed towards them, his face discomposed. 

“ Have you any news ? ” 

Alas! no. Du Breuil knew nothing. How could he 
know anything? 

Dr. Sohier, in his tight-fitting coat, descended the flight 
of steps. After shaking hands with Du Breuil, he growled 
out: 

“ The calmative is commencing to have effect. Mme. 
Bersheim must have sleep. Ah! without your mother and 
your daughter. . . . They are the only reasonable people 
here.” 

Anine in turn came up. Her beautiful eyes were red and 
circled with blue marks, but her face, by force of will, re- 
mained calm. She reminded the doctor of some details for 
the preparation of an ambulance which her parents were 
establishing in the old house. They could find room for 
fifteen beds in two large and three small rooms. It was the 
duty of the rich to set the example. Because they had sorrow 
wasn’t an argument why they shouldn’t do this. They were 
only doing their duty. Sohier went. “ Geeho ! Geeho ! ” and 
other shouts were then heard. A cart, to which two white 
horses were harnessed, entered the courtyard. It was loaded 
to the height of the first-floor of the house with furniture, 
packed with mattresses, and surmounted by a cradle. In the 
hanging compartment under the vehicle coloured plates were 
knocking up against some kitchen utensils. A peasant, who 
was sitting on one of the shafts holding the reins and the 


THE DISASTER. 


119 


whip in his hands, jumped down. M. Bersheim recognised 
Thibaut, the son-in-law of Father Larouy, his tenant at 
Noisseville. 

He was a man with a sharp look and smile, his hair and 
beard curled, and he had a very pronounced limp. 

“ It’s on account of Louise,” he explained. “ She said 
that, as she is going to be confined, the child would resemble 
a Prussian if she were so unfortunate as to see a single one. 
She wished by all means to come away.” 

They then observed, seated upon a mattress at the back 
of the cart, Thibaut’s wife, heavy by reason of her approach- 
ing maternity, her two children — a little boy in breeches, a 
little girl in petticoats, both rosy and fat-cheeked as apples — 
at her side. 

“ Of course I didn’t want to see them ! ” she cried ener- 
getically — “ savages like they are, who kill the wounded and 
burn the houses! The brother-in-law of our uncle Thomas 
saw them at Wissemberg sticking their bayonets into an 
officer who was lying in the straw. They are savages — 
savages ! ” 

The blood mounted to her cheeks, and the children looked 
at each other as though about to cry. 

‘‘And what of Father and Mother Larouy? ” asked Bers- 
heim, forgetting his sorrow. 

“ They wouldn’t hear anything,” continued the peasant. 
“ They say they are too old to move. They will take care 
of the farm. They send you these fine chickens and these 
fresh eggs.” 

“ Come, now,” exclaimed Bersheim, “ we must find room 
for these honest folk ! ” 

Du Breuil wanted to leave. 

“Ho, no, I beg of you! Come in for a moment. Anine, 
see that he doesn’t go.” 

She raised her beautiful eyes to him, and smiled with an 
anxious gravity which moved him. He murmured: 

“ I only came to bring you my deepest sympathy.” 

She bent her head; a shaft of light struck her thick 
golden hair, tied into a large tress. 

“ Grandmother will be very pleased to see you,” she said, 
raising her face. 

He followed her. In the drawing-room Mme. Le Martrois 
was feeling at Gustave’s waistcoat. 

9 


120 


THE DISASTER. 


“You must put on a wool under- jacket, my child,” she 
said, in an alarmed voice. 

Grandmother Sophia, seated bolt upright, her hands 
clasped on her knees, which were pressed close together, 
seemed to be frozen, in a posture of sorrowful but valiant 
immobility. The ruches of her cap trembled when she recog- 
nised Du Breuil, dor whom she had a great affection. It was 
a pleasure to him to press her hands, cold and as though 
worn out. After a few commonplace remarks there was a 
painful silence. Lisbeth, the old servant, entered the room 
noiselessly, and whispered into Grandmother Sophia’s ear. 
The old woman drew from her pocket a bunch of keys, and, 
a slave to habit, left the room preceded by Lisbeth. In the 
meantime Mme. Le Martrois was examining Du Breuil’s uni- 
form with a frowning air, and then looking at Gustave, .who 
really did not look very brilliant in his civilian jacket, his 
gray cloth trousers, and his small cap, which he twirled be- 
tween his fingers. 

“ He will never be able to support military hardships,” 
she sighed. 

Du Breuil took leave. The young lady held out her hand 
to him. Ilis feelings were confused. Expressions of hope 
rose to his lips, but he judged silence was more delicate, 
and just as expressive. Anine could not misunderstand 
that. 

In the courtyard, Bersheim, who was superintending the 
unloading of the cart, and who even assisted, with frank 
good nature, in getting down the cradle, took him by the 
hands and looked at him with eyes full of distress. His 
mouth opened, but he was unable to utter a word. 

“ Come, courage,” said Du Breuil. “Ho news is good 
news. A little patience. We know nothing yet.” 

But Bersheim shook his head. 

“ My wife makes me fear. She has seen, she has. You 
know that mothers have presentiments. . . . That a mis- 
fortune has occurred is certain.” 

Du Breuil, turning away his eyes, said, “ Be a man ! ” 
and left quickly. . . .Yes, a misfortune had come to that 
house, must have come! Death was in the air. Maurice or 
Andre ? Perhaps both. . . . And suddenly he thought of his 
father and mother, their emotion when they heard of the 
defeats, their sorrow. . . . They must be almost out of their 


THE DISASTER. 


121 


minds with anxiety. . . . And the sweet face of Mme. de 
Gui’onic. . . . 

He was entering the offices of the staff, when he met a 
strange apparition, accompanied by a Colonel and Blache on 
horseback. Astride a chestnut Barbary horse a little old 
General with white hair, and old-fashioned kepi upon his 
head, dressed in a coat too short for him, and red, bell-bot- 
tomed trousers, was looking to right and left with a still 
lively and, apparently, indifferent air at the curiosity which 
he excited. 

“ Changarnier ! ” * exclaimed a passer-by. 

When the war broke out he had asked to be allowed to 
serve again, but he had been put on one side. Now they were 
only too glad to profit by his counsels. 

The impression which Du Breuil carried away of the 
decorous, dry old man, who made him a blunt salute, was one 
somewhat comic (inspired by his whimsical dress), but mixed 
with tenderness. He was doing a splendid action, he w'ho 
was so near death, in giving up the remainder of his life to 
the army. ... Du Breuil at once recalled Lacoste in his 
small bedroom at Saint-Cloud, saying, with religious fer- 
vour, that there was no death more beautiful than that on 
the field of battle, almost hoping for such a death as a re- 
ward. 

The 9th was a cruel day. The sky was overcast, and the 
rain never ceased falling. Amplified accounts came in of the 
Eorbach and Woerth defeats. Consternation spread from 
place to place; the excitement of two days before gave place 
to gloomy depression; one could only meet with downcast 
faces. The disorder at the Prefecture and at headquarters 
was tragic. The commotion in Paris made the whole of 
France tremble, and it was felt at Metz in a series of painful 
shocks. Telegrams from the Empress Pegent to the Em- 
peror and Marshal Lebceuf, sent off under the influence of the 
emotion produced at the Corps Legislatif on the previous 


* A brave soldier but a poor general. After the Revolution of 1848 he 
was appointed Governor of Algeria, where he did the best work of !5is life. 
At the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War he asked for a command, which 
was refused ; but he was sent to Metz, where it is said he gave bad advice to 
Bazaine. Ile'was exceedingly vain. After the war he used to send bouquets 
of flowers to Mdlle. Dosne, the sister-in-law of Thiers, with the aceompany- 
inor note : “ From General Changarnier, who is not yet a Marshal of France.” 
— F. L. 


122 


THE DISASTER. 


evening, begged the Marshal to give in his resignation both 
as Minister of War and as Connnandant-General. 

He gave way with injured dignity before the personal 
entreaties of the Sovereign. But the Emperor only wished 
to accept his resignation as Minister of War. Bazaine again 
received an extension of power, an imperial decree confer- 
ring upon him the definite command of the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th 
corps. General Maneque was appointed the chief of his staff. 
General Decaen replaced the Marshal at the head of the 3rd 
corps. But Bazaine remained a subordinate, and military 
operations, always wanting in the necessary impulsion, still 
turned in the same circle of indecision and error. 

The Emperor, accompanied by Changarnier, called upon 
the Marshal at Faulquemont, and disapproved of his project, 
which was to concentrate on Haney and Erouard, in view of 
rallying the 1st and 5th corps. They would await the enemy 
, under the walls of Metz. The 6th corps and the division of 
African cavalry were definitely summoned there. Instead of 
guarding Mercy-le-Haut, on the left bank of the French 
Hied, the army fell back to Seille, under the cannon of the 
forts. In the meantime three German armies, masked by a 
dense curtain of cavalry, were advancing. The Chambers 
in Paris having been convoked, the Ministry fell. 

General Comte de Palikao formed another. The Left 
asked for the appointment of a defence committee to replace 
the existing powers. Hewspapers, representing all parties 
and all over the departments, summoned France to take up 
arms, called for a general rising. The country was in danger. 

The immigration of peasants at Metz, in the midst of the 
rain and the wind, was a sorrowful business. The people 
thought they could see Uhlan lances in all directions, and, 
fleeing from their villages, they arrived with that which was 
most precious to them. The gates of the city were encum- 
bered, and in the streets could be seen files of miserable carts 
and drays loaded with furniture, household effects, and mat- 
tresses, upon which were old people, women and heedless 
children, sleeping or playing. Behind the carts bellowed a 
milch cow, attached by a cord, or bleated a troop of sheep, 
their legs bitten by savage dogs. And the stream still in- 
creased, strewing the pavement with bits of straw and dung. 
The furniture exhibited its lamentable nakedness ; cupboards, 
from the badly-closed doors of which clothes were sticking 


THE DISASTER. 


123 


out, seemed to be already pillaged; straw mattresses and red 
eiderdowns exposed to the daylight seemed to have some- 
thing sad about them. The earthen pots and saucepans, 
looking so humble with their carbonized bottoms, expressed 
better than anything else the abandonment of the hearth and 
the familiar roof. It was a grotesque procession which made 
nobody inclined to laugh. On a fodder cart, in the place 
of honour, between a dresser and some chairs, a pig was 
grunting. Further on a cat popped its head out of a basket. 
Sometimes crockery was broken, to the great despair of the 
owners. The women especially had sorrowful countenances. 
Some of them looked out defiantly and with flushed cheeks 
from under the handkerchiefs which covered their hair; 
others, with their legs hanging down from the sides of the 
carts, laughed idiotically. There could be seen savage, stiff 
old men and women who did not seem to understand what 
you said to them. They only babbled in dialect. One hard- 
featured old woman with white headbands, who was walking 
along with a bundle on her back, looked like a witch. All 
these people had the same air of stupor and expectancy, an 
air of resignation to misery which oppressed the heart. Men 
in blouses also arrived, some enlisting as volunteers, others 
working at the fortifications. 

The authorities were dismayed at such an influx of people. 
In case of siege all these mouths would have to be fed. On 
the following day the Prefect and the Mayor issued two de- 
crees, informing the inhabitants of the communes that they 
would only be allowed to enter the town and reside there on 
condition of their bringing with them sufficient food to last 
at least forty days. But how were these measures, which 
were, moreover, tardy, to be vigorously carried out? 

Tall poplar-trees in the suburbs were felled by the militia, 
and lay across the roads. Everywhere were empty residences 
and silent works. General Coffinieres ordered all inhabitants 
within the military zone to pull down their houses. Gardens, 
villas, country residences, arbours, disappeared under the 
workman’s pickaxe. A small works, built of red brick, showed 
its side stoved in and its chimney cracked. Mud walls again 
became mud. Bedrooms, open to the day, showed the flow- 
ered wall-paper on the walls hanging in strips. To see these 
ruins and this desolation, one would have said that fire and 
war had already passed that way. And there was not a pro- 


124 : 


THE DISASTER. 


test or a complaint. The last inhabitants, stepping out of 
the way of the stones, their feet in the water, left without 
looking behind them. At the cemetery gate a wine-shop kept 
open some time longer. Some half-drunken militiamen 
danced there with some common girls to the tune of a fiddler, 
who, a foraging-cap on his head, scraped away on his violin. 
It was a grim kind of gaiety in the midst of this melan- 
choliness of inanimate things, in the midst of the fine rain 
which still fell from a lowering sky. 

Steps were taken in regard to the town water-supply. In 
case the Gorze aqueduct should be cut, the Fonts and 
Chaussees department had established above the Roches 
bridge a pump for the raising of the waters of the Moselle 
into the reservoirs. The Governor issued a decree postponing 
all proceedings or appeals in the case of writs, bills and 
promissory notes. The military and civil authorities were all 
over the place ; but the people, instead of being assured, were 
frightened, and the worst misfortunes were supposed to have 
happened. The arming of the forts was being pushed for- 
ward. Du Breuil met Barrus. He was working with fever- 
ish activity. He sneered bitterly as he spoke. . . . 

At the Prefecture, on the afternoon of the 10th, Du 
Breuil saw the officers of the Du Bareil division, who had 
arrived in the morning. They were being feted by the im- 
perial staff, taken towards the buffet in one of the large rooms 
on the ground-floor. The manly, bronzed faces of the Afri- 
cans obtained everybody’s approbation and smile. A cheery 
voice called to Du Breuil. He recognised one of his friends, 
Lieutenant-Colonel de la Manse. 

“You wish to kill us, then?” he said laughingly. “We 
came from Saint-Mihiel at one bound, by a forced march, 
during the night. We thought the enemy was there. Your 
despatch was so urgent. . . .” And, as Du Breuil looked at 
him in astonishment, he continued: “How, look innocent! 
As if you didn’t know that Lebrun and Jarras had had a bet 
as to the marching powers of the Chasseurs d’Afrique. Well, 
Lebrun has won.” 

A very young Second Lieutenant near them, graceful and 
scented as a woman, had just introduced himself. It was 
Roger Langlade. Du Breuil recalled the senator’s wife at 
the soiree at Saint-Cloud, and the husband in Mme. de Gui'- 
onic’s box at the opera. How desirous they were that their 


THE DISASTER. 


125 


son should fight! Had their enthusiasm lasted? He spoke 
to the young man about his family. 

“ Ah, Major, I am too happy to know you. My mother 
has often mentioned your name.” 

He smiled affectedly, showed his white teeth, and assumed 
a languid look, so as to appear more seductive. This gay 
young man, full of confidence and in the strength of his 
youth, thought, as his father had said, that the greater the 
trouble the more fun there was. 

Everybody was thinking about the 1st and 5th corps, 
which MacMahon had been ordered to concentrate at Haney. 
Would they be able to rally the Metz army in time? Sup- 
posing the enemy were quicker than they were, and reached 
Toul and Haney first, MacMahon and He Failly would be 
obliged to retreat in a totally different direction. Hearts 
were wrung with anguish. The superior numbers of the 
Germans were redoubtable, and their artillery was better than 
our own. Illusions must be done away with ; it was a critical 
time. With two victories to their advantage, the three Ger- 
man armies were attacking our right flank, threatening the 
communications with Paris, cutting us off from MacMahon 
and He Failly. On the morning of the 12th, the presence of 
the enemy on the banks of the Seille was reported. 

The dawn of the 13th broke, and the rain of the last few 
days ceased. Hour after hour the time went by with the 
same rapidity, good, false and bad news — only too true was 
the bad news — flowing in. And no orders came. He could 
not understand it. The eternal question continually harassed 
him, What are they waiting for ? What is Bazaine thinking 
about? Although there had been no regular transmission 
of duties, there could be no doubt that he had been in com- 
mand since that morning. Why didn’t the general staff 
which had come under his orders approach him on the sub- 
ject? General Jarras, with the whole of his officers, had 
placed himself at his disposal. The Marshal replied that he 
would see him in the afternoon when he came to consult with 
the Emperor ; but after he had paid his visit, he set off again 
in his carriage for Borny without informing him. Jarras 
went after him. Bazaine, after a few unimportant words, 
had said, as he was leaving, I have no order to give you.” 
Hu Breuil could hardly believe his ears. 

Another care weighed upon his mind. How was it that 


126 


THE DISASTER. 


nobody was occupying himself with the points at which the 
enemy, issuing on to the left bank of the Moselle, could cut 
off retreat? The inhabitants of Noveant and Ars wanted 
to know if they had not better destroy their bridges. An 
officer in the Engineers, who had laid and charged the cham- 
bers of mines at the Ars bridge, asked for urgent orders which 
never came. Why did not General Coffinieres draw Bazaine’s 
attention to this question? 

His astonishment increased when he met Langlade — ^how 
beautifully curled he was ! — at the Cafe Parisien. Langlade 
gave him an account of the ride of the Margueritte Brigade, 
which had been sent on the previous evening to Pont-a- 
Mousson, occupied by. the enemy’s cavalry. 

“ First news,” said Du Breuil. 

The operation, however, had its importance. The re- 
establishment of the line opened up the way for the 6th 
corps, with the exception of its artillery, its engineers, its 
cavalry, and its administrative departments. 

Lieutenant Marquis, coming out of the cafe like a jack- 
in-a-box, pounced upon him. 

“ Do you know. Major, that Marshal Lebqeuf is going to 
be brought before a court-martial, and that Frossard is on 
the eve of being shot ? ” 

“ You are the first to inform me of it,” said Du Breuil 
indifferently. 

Seated on the terrace. Marquis commenced to give some 
officers of the garrison still more stupefying news. When he 
invented or lied he always had an admirable accent of sin- 
cerity, and could always find credulous ears. When Du 
Breuil asked him for information about the bivouac of the 
Lancers of the Guard, and named Lacoste, Marquis cried: 

“ Lacoste ? He was killed by a kick from a horse. I knew 
him well — a fat little man with a bald head, and troubled 
with asthma.” 

Ho, that was not a description of Lacoste, and Du Breuil, 
reassured, was returning to the offices of the staff, when he 
met his friend upon horseback. He was sent upon a mission 
by General Desvaux. He was very sorrowful. His head was 
bent towards the pavement, and his horse, Conquerant, was 
halting. At the sound of Du Breuil’s voice he raised his 
head, bringing to view his red cheek-bones and his eyes more 
sunken than before. A sorrowful smile came upon his face. 


THE DISASTER. 


127 


And they call that fighting ! ” he said bitterly. Tramp- 
ing in the mud, because that has been our work since I saw 
you. Horses foundered and men knocked up only to beat a 
shameful retreat, as though we were frightened of the rain. 
The rain and the mud have been our lot for the past week. 
But the saddest thing of all is the fiight of these unfortunate 
inhabitants.” 

Du Breuil understood him. He was thinking of Lacoste’s 
own people, those poor peasants in the Creuse who were safe 
and sound, if others were not. Lacoste, lowering his voice, 
continued with sorrowful enthusiasm: 

“ Just now I met an old woman — an old woman seated 
upon a cart. My dear fellow, there are resemblances which 
positively make one ill. She was pressing a bundle of old 
linen to her breast. I thought I could see my mother. And 
we soldiers look at such a sight, and do nothing to repulse 
the invader. It is sickening! There are times when I wish 
a bullet was in my head, and that all was over. France is 
lost ! ” 

“ Come, come ! ” said Du Breuil gently. 

“ Lost ! ” repeated Lacoste in a harsh voice. You will 
see — you will see 1 ” 

Du Breuil reached the offices with death in his soul. He 
found that everything there justified his sorrow. An over- 
flow of the Moselle had submerged some of the bridges, car- 
ried away others, and covered the fields and the land adjoin- 
ing the river with water. An enormous amount of work 
was to be done over again. And the roads, he asked himself, 
once the army was on the left bank, who would look after 
them? Why were they not sent to reconnoitre? The most 
important road was that which, by way of Moulins-les-Metz, 
ascended a very steep hill, entered the valley of the Mance, 
and reached Gravelotte, whence it divided into two, both 
leading to Verdun, the first by way of Rezonville and Mars- 
la-Tour, the second by Doncourt, Jarny, and Etain. 

In the evening orders at last arrived. Headquarters had 
only to transmit them to the 6th corps, and to the heads of 
departments. General Maneque having directly informed the 
2nd, 3rd and 4th corps and the Guard, which he held under 
his hand. It was an inexpressible relief to Du Breuil. They 
were to be ready to set off on the next day (the 14th) at five 
in the morning, taking with them provisions for three days, 


128 


THE DISASTER. 


the general commissary of stores taking as many rations as 
possible, leaving Metz only with the necessary transports for 
the garrison. Baggage was to be reduced to the smallest 
limits. Those men who were unfit for active service were to 
be left behind in the town, and organized in regular detach- 
ments. The Metz garrison would, in addition, consist of the 
depot, the militia, and as the nucleus the Laveaucoupet 
division, detached from the 2nd corps. Du Breuil eagerly 
settled down to work, of which there was ‘enough and 
plenty, so as to kill the last hours of waiting. It appeared 
to him that to flee from Metz would be the end of a 
nightmare. He was, however, leaving friends behind him. 
Poor Bersheims! Would he find time to say good-bye to 
them? 

At the thought of Anine a tumult of confused sensations 
crowded upon him. He seemed to be living a horrible dream. 
In a fortnight so many horrible and irreparable things had 
happened. The fate of the army? The future of Metz? 
Left to herself, could she hold out against the invaders ? And 
he thought of the Bersheims, as though the heart of Metz 
and their hearts were one and the same. He suffered when 
he imagined Anine a prisoner, and Prussian officers glaring 
in her face. As he was about to leave. Captain de Francastel 
appeared in a state of great excitement, and announced in a 
quick voice: 

‘‘We are betrayed! The Prussians have been informed 
of our retreat. Three rockets have just been seen to go up 
from the Saint-Quentin slopes.” 

Everybody thought of the signals arranged upon by spies. 
Laune said dryly: 

“ Don’t spread such rumours about, and especially with 
so much warmth.” 

Erancastel’s light-headedness and his indiscriminate chat- 
tering displeased him. 

“ I assure you. Colonel ” 

Laune had already turned his back. More orders came 
in. Du Breuil was unable to leave the offices. He passed a 
feverish night; he hardly got two hours’ bad sleep. As he 
was washing himself in the morning, Frisch entered the room 
on tip-toe. He had just fastened the canteen trunks. The 
horses, he said, were in good trim, and were eager to set off. 
He had settled the laundrymaid’s bill. Honest Frisch! Hever 


THE DISASTER. 


129 


had Du Breuil had a better appreciation of his exactitude 
and devotion. 

Well, Frisch, we’re going.” 

Frisch shook his head. He left Metz with regret. Bers- 
heim’s pretty servant, with her sweet smile, had made him 
forget the cook in the Hue de Bourgogne who had given him 
such good poulet au hlanc, and chablis with which to wash it 
down. All the same, he was suffering from the existing 
humiliation just as much as another, perhaps more than some 
gallooned boasters. 

He was packing some white gloves, the tissue-paper of 
which had become crinkled, and with his big red fingers was 
folding up a new pair. Du Breuil again saw himself making 
purchases before his departure: the auburn-haired girl in 
the glove-shop, her glances and her smile. 

“ Give me that pair,” he said to Frisch. 

He carried the gloves in his hand when he went to say 
good-bye to the Bersheims in the morning. It was Sunday, 
and the weather was clearing up. He called to mind other 
Sundays in former times, holidays at the Ecole d’ Applica- 
tion, the whole of his splendid youth full of strength and 
hope, and his heart ached as though it had received a deep 
wound. The town was filling with vehicles and troops. In 
the direction of the two stone bridges the obstruction was 
extraordinary: cries, blows from whips, orders, murmurs 
and complaints, could be heard on every side. Du Breuil 
heard the uproar echo in the distance with the cadenced step 
of the soldiers, which shook the pavement and mingled with 
the rumbling of wheels, the horses’ hoofs accompanying the 
continual uproar with the rhythm of a waterfall. Men, ani- 
mals, and vehicles rolled on like a river, or stopped still owing 
to the overflow. Wherever there was an empty space, soldiers 
slipped into it, forming a compact and living mass. 

Du Breuil found Anine and Mme. Bersheim were alone 
at home. Thibaut’s little girl and boy were playing in the 
courtyard. Through an open window he saw some well-made 
white beds waiting for the wounded. Mme. Bersheim, who 
wore a dark dress, was making lint. Anine was rolling up 
bandages. He thought of the two who had disappeared — 
Maurice and Andre — and tears started to his eyes. Anine 
noticed it, and slierhtly blushed. It was like an exchange 
of soul between them. A bitter sweetness penetrated Du 


130 


THE DISASTER. 


Breuil. Anine seemed to him to be less a stranger; in- 
visible bonds drew them together. He could not understand 
what necessity there was to leave. He contemplated the large 
light room in which they were working, the baskets of linen, 
a work-box placed upon the table; all these things seemed 
so familiar and sweet, as though they only called up peace 
and rest. The horror of the situation, however, came upon 
him once more. Anine pricked herself with a needle stuck 
in her bodice. She sucked the blood from her finger. A 
drop had stained the linen bandage. Du Breuil turned pale. 
Everything he felt that minute \^as poignant, unexpected, 
singular. He rose ; he felt his heart was choking him. Mme. 
Bersheim opened her arms. 

“ Adieu, my dear friend ! ” 

She embraced him like a son. Du Breuil thought: she 
embraces her own. . . . He begged her- to say good-bye for 
him to Grandmother Sophia and to Bersheim. The two 
women nodded Yes, yes ! ” as though they were in a hurry 
to see him leave. Anine looked in his eyes, held out her hand 
to him — that hand so sweet, so plump. He kissed it, and 
hurriedly left without looking behind him. The vehicles, 
soldiers, the uproar of the river of tramping beings advan- 
cing, drawing back, jostling each other, enveloped and deaf- 
ened him. Someone whom he did not recognise called out 
to him. He was a man with a blackened, bronzed face, wear- 
ing a red belt round his body, big high boots on his feet, and 
carrying a stick in his hand. 

“ Vedel! ” he exclaimed. 

Yes, it was his cousin Vedel, who was passing with his 
battalion. The meeting displeased him, notwithstanding 
Vedel’s honest eyes. Taking advantage of a stoppage of the 
troops, a soldier of the first rank planted himself before him, 
immobile, carrying arms, a smile upon his face. 

“ Maxime ! ” • 

Certainly, it was Vicomte Judin, covered with persx^ira- 
tion and dust. Ah ! Saint-Cloud was far off now. Ho dress- 
coat, no gardenia in his buttonhole, no patent-leather shoes 
upon his feet, but a soldier’s porringer upon his shoulders, 
and a piece of bread held in position by the straps of his 
knapsack. He had a gallant air, all the same, and, of all 
these men with wrinkled, heavy faces, he was the one who 
had shaved that morning. It was a bifief appearance. A 


THE DISASTER. 


131 


stout Major with a croaking voice swept down upon them, 
and cried: 

“Forward, Captain — ^press forward! Close up there, you 
others ! ’’ 

It was a human wave, the heads representing the foam. 

A brief “ Adieu 1 good luck 1 ” and Du Breuil found him- 
self alone in the midst of the ever-moving town, under the 
canopy of dust which floated above interminable carts and 
waggons — alone, abominably alone. 


CHAPTER VI. 

He had been sent to the He Chambiere, to General de 
Ladmirault, to hurry on the passage of the troops, and he had 
just delivered his message. The Commander of the 4th corps 
had turned his powerful face, upon which calm and reflection 
was stamped, towards him; then, stretching out a short stick 
above his horse’s head, he had pointed out the ponts-volants, 
over which the infantry of the Lorencez division was deflling 
in good order. 

Du Breuil exchanged a few words with Vacossart, a 
Captain of the escort, the little red-haired dragoon whom he 
had formerly hurriedly passed in the lobbies of the Ministry 
of War, and who was then so joyous because he was setting 
out with the army. He made inquiries about one of their 
comrades, Comte de Cussac. 

“ He has just gone up the Saint- Julien slope at a gallop. 
The Governor’s sent him to General de Cissey.” Vacossart 
added : “ There is need to hurry up. Much time is required.” 

“ The cavalry has already passed.” 

Vacossart exclaimed: “What dust!” 

His sharp eyes, his ruddy cheeks, gave him the appearance 
of being on fire under his spotted turban helmet, the copper 
chain of which, fastened tightly, made his bull-dog jaws stick 
out prominently. Du Breuil was looking at the trembling 
green water, the swaying of the nearest bridge under the 
regular step of the foot soldiers ; was listening to the noise of 
the batteries and waggons descending the hill, when a cannon- 


132 


THE DISASTER. 


shot rang out in the distance. Vacossart listened. There 
came a second shot, nearer, on the left; then another. Paces 
took an intense and indefinable expression. 

^^They are attacking,” said a Lieutenant, who looked very 
white. Was it his natural colour? 

“ At last ! ” growled another, an old officer whose right 
eye was lost and whose face bore a scar. 

Du BreuiFs mare nervously backed into the sides of a 
trooper’s horse which was neighing and trying to bite her. 
Cannon-shots redoubled in violence. The escort set off. 
Vacossart, turning round in his saddle, snapped his fingers. 

“ Chouette ! it’s going to be warm ! ” 

Du Breuil thought only of the threatened and retarded 
retreat. Time had been lost, and the enemy, always on 
their guard, always prompt, were profiting by it. Victory? 
Steinmetz driven back; nothing would be better. . . . But 
during this time Frederick Charles was advancing on the 
left bank, and cutting off the return on Verdun. He gave 
his horse the bridle, and Cydalise carried him back. The 
crowding of the streets of Metz was tremendous, and anxiety 
was stamped on every face. Official despatches posted up all 
along the walls reminded him of the Emperor’s departure 
after breakfast for Longueville. He believed he could again 
see stationed before the Prefecture the squadron of flugel- 
men, the Cent-gardes, and the imperial carriages. The lug- 
gage, the livery servants, the kitchen staff, the provision 
waggons, had gone on ahead. Seated on one of the vehicles 
he had recognised the stout Saint-Cloud butler, wearing a 
waterproof dust cloak, and upon his head a round felt hat. 
He was looking like a stiff cockchafer. How sad this de- 
parture of the Sovereign was! The crowd was silent; there 
was neither cry nor gesture. The Emperor, pale-faced, talked 
with his son; Prince Napoleon’s grave face compelled one 
to think, owing to its resemblance to the face of the Other, 
of ancient and funereal memories, some said of the adieux 
at Fontainebleau. Some in the crowd said in a low voice: 
“ They are fleeing ! ” 

He made some inquiries from a secretary of the staff. 
General Jarras and his staff, upon hearing the first shot, had 
jumped into the saddle to rejoin the Marshal. Du Breuil 
drew off the brown leather gloves, worn by the reins, which 
he was wearing, and took his white gloves from his holsters. 


THE DISASTER. 


133 


Mme. de Guionic’s opal was in his way. He slipped the ring 
on his little finger, on the top of the glove. Its reflection was 
milky and iridescent, the beauty of a changeable and per- 
fidious jewel. Would it bring good luck or misfortune ? Bah ! 
he was not superstitious. Deresse was right : the bullet which 
strikes us is moulded for eternity; the great thing was, to 
be ready. Then, as Cydalise was galloping towards the Porte 
des Allemands, the frightened people scampering out of the 
way, he conceived the grandeur of the military profession, 
and raised his thought towards his father, a simple, high- 
minded soldier. Du Breuil offered the voluntary sacrifice 
of his life with all his soul. Of course, the vital, supreme 
instinct made him hope that he would not be killed; but 
he said to himself, conscious of his littleness, that he was 
going to plunge into the melee — a drop of blood, a handful 
of brains, in the anonymous crowd of combatants : “ May 
my fate be fulfilled ! ” 

Before he had gone far the wounded appeared, advancing 
on mules and in carts. One of the men was every minute 
slipping between the straps of the cacolet, stretching out his 
legs until they scraped the ground, and from one of his clank- 
ing boots flowed a red trail of blood. Those less injured had 
a feverish and excited air. A Light Infantry officer replied 
to his salute by a smile, and said : “ They are receiving a 
thrashing Some little soldiers were conversing as though 
intoxicated with a desire to chatter : “ Then, you understand, 
I leapt into the ditch, brought my chassepot to my shoulder, 
and ” Seated upon a bundle of straw was an old artil- 

leryman decorated with medals, holding his pipe in one hand 
and smoking, his eyes, with an absent look in them, lost in 
what dream one could not say. His other hand had been 
shot off, and his arm, temporarily bound up, was bleeding. 
Other wounded men passed by. “ I should like a bit of some- 
thing to eat,” said one. “ I’m so thirsty,” said another. A 
little Montmartre vitrier chuckled ; “ They gave us some 
rotten bread this morning.” He winked his eye. But 
there’s good white bread at Metz for Bibi.” Almost all of 
them, even the most downcast, had a resigned air. In the 
case of some, their manner was grave, others were naively 
childish, as though they experienced an immense relief, a 
real joy, in fleeing from Death, who was mowing down com- 
rades behind them. 


134 


THE DISASTER. 


An officer in a blue spencer galloped across the field. 

“ The Marshal ? ” cried Du Breuil. 

Over there ! ” 

But before his arm could point out where, the horse 
stumbled and the officer was thrown against a tree. Du 
Breuil crossed the embankment and called the infirmary at- 
tendants to him. The horseman was raised from the ground. 
He was only stunned. He remounted his broken-kneed horse 
and set off again, without thanking anybody. Du Breuil 
then saw the opal on his finger gaily, almost ironically, 
sparkle in the sun. . . . Would it bring misfortune? The 
officer had only turned his head for a second, but that had 
been quite sufficient. . . . Good — what an idea! At any 
other time he would have smiled at it. Cavalry was in move- 
ment to his right. He recognised a dark-blue line of dra- 
goons, a light-blue line of lancers — the Guard, a doctor of the 
International informed him. Bourbaki had just passed with 
the Light Infantry and the Grenadiers. The Prussians were 
vigorously attacking Colombey and the Chateau of Aubigny; 
our cavalry was destroying them. Small white clouds from 
the shells could be seen vanishing into the air; the mitrail- 
leuses cracked with a strident, tearing sound. 

“ Do you hear ? ” asked the doctor. He was humpbacked, 
hairy, as ugly as a gorilla, and he grimaced, owing to a 
nervous affection, as though he was rolling nuts in his mouth. 
But his blue eyes were of an admirable purity. 

“ The Marshal ? ” repeated Du Breuil. 

The doctor removed his cap, upon which was the red cross, 
to scratch his head with a very long finger-nail, and said : 

He was seen going in the direction of Grigy.” 

Du Breuil dashed forward without hearing what the doc- 
tor, with wild gestures, shouted to him. The plateau, inter- 
sected with hedges and trees, ascended. A bivouac, aban- 
doned in the morning, was marked out by the round black- 
ened patches where the fires had been, and on the spot where 
the butchers had worked was a heap of skins and intestines 
of oxen, covered with flies, the infection of which was being 
matured in the sun. The whole length of the line of battle, 
troops were advancing in columns and deploying. A Prus- 
sian officer taken prisoner, his head bandaged in a red hand- 
kerchief, passed, full of disdain, between some gendarmes. 
Some canteen carriages, near a clump of trees, were sur- 


THE DISASTER. 


135 


rounded by some soldiers, who took to their heels upon seeing 
advancing towards them at full gallop a squadron of Light 
Cavalry, driving the stragglers towards the battle. Every- 
where foot soldiers could be seen to rise from small hills and 
ditches, like startled sparrows, and disappear. Du Breuil 
crossed Borny, which was full of troops, but at the moment 
of striking out on Grigy road an inhabitant informed him 
that the Marshal had just gone in a northeasterly direction. 
Du Breuil turned round and again stopped at the outlet of 
the village, passing before a park and a chateau crowded 
with wounded. They were lying on the borders of the 
flower-beds, on the lawns, their backs leaning against the 
old trees. Some honest folk and inhabitants of Metz, sur- 
prised in the course of their Sunday walk, were here, there 
and everywhere, improvising an ambulance in a large cov- 
ered room. 

He made further inquiries. Contradictory indications 
sent him on the Colombey road. Bullets whistled. Corpses 
on their knees appeared to be living. On the collar of the 
coat of one he read the number of the regiment — the 41st. 
A shell shattered a small tree a few yards away. The ricochet 
of a pebble struck his gloved hand, covering the opal with 
sand. He blew upon it. At that moment a row of soldiers 
who were in front of him fell back. Five or six fell flat on 
their stomachs ; one of these rose again, ran forward without 
his helmet, and then fell upon his back. The din was deafen- 
ing. A feeling of intoxication, a desire to laugh, seized 
Du Breuil. He tenderly stroked Cydalise and called her 
^‘Beauty.” A company came running up, enveloped him, 
and passed on. An officer cried out : “ Pas gymnastique ! ” 
The soldiers’ faces and their brief speech seemed to him to 
augur well. His heart cried “ Victory ! ” 

Giving his horse a touch of the spur, he dashed forward, 
having on his right a small flr-plantation. Behind an avenue 
of poplars some light infantrymen and soldiers of the line 
were keeping up a hot Are against the Prussian sharpshoot- 
ers. When jumping a hedge his mare stumbled. He pulled 
her up with a sharp jerk of the reins. The animal halted. 
He uttered a vigorous oath. Cydalise wounded ! He jumped 
from his saddle, but could And no trace of blood. The hoofs ? 
A stone had got between one of her shoes. He dislodged it 
by means of his penknife, and was nearly killed by a kick. 

10 


136 


THE DISASTER. 


The vicious beast ! Good ! A bullet coming from afar grazed 
the crupper. Other bullets whistled past. A pail which was 
lying on the ground was shot through. Some artillerymen 
ran up shouting, “ Look out ! look out ! ” A shell whistled 
and fell with a dull thud into a ditch full of water, which 
splashed over Du Breuil. He tried to jump into the saddle, 
but Cydalise reared, overturned him, and, his. foot fastened 
in the stirrup, dragged him along, the nape of his neck bump- 
ing the uneven ground. Thus jolted along, he saw the blue 
sky crossed by a small white cloud; then he closed his eyes, 
blinded by the sun, dazzling as death. Very fortunately, an 
artilleryman on horseback, intercepting Cydalise in her 
flight, caught hold of the reins, and Du Breuil, without know- 
ing how, found himself once more on his feet. Ho bones 
were broken. He brushed the dust from his uniform. The 
beardless artilleryman, a sad-looking man pitted with small- 
pox, smiled gawkishly and handed him the reins. 

“ Thanks.” 

The saddle had slipped, so he tightened the girth. Then 
he raised himself into the saddle on his wrists, and once more 
astride, he wrathfully pulled at the mare’e mouth and gave 
her the spur. The little soldier appeared astonished, and 
a look of reproach came into his gray eyes, which were with- 
out eyelashes. Du Breuil recollected that he owed his life 
to him. 

“ Your name-? ” he cried, turning round. 

The other shouted it to him, but his horse carried him 
towards the moving battery. Du Breuil could not catch it. 
This lost name pricked his conscience. The opal ring still 
shone on his Anger. He comprehended the full extent of the 
danger which he had run, and became alternately hot and 
cold in the small of his back. Really, he was not supersti- 
tious. Had it not been . . . He had the feeling of humilia- 
tion which every admirable horseman has who is thrown. 
And the look in the small soldier’s eyes — that look of aston- 
ishment and reproach. . . . His heart suddenly softened 
towards Cydalise, and he asked her forgiveness; the poor 
animal was bleeding. Some drums rattled furiously. He 
skirted a line of troops, and saluted a General. An officer 
said he had seen the Marshal’s escort pass a few moments 
before. The Prussians were advancing on the Sarrelouis 
road. 


THE DISASTER. 


13T 


Five minutes afterwards Du Breuil joined the squadron 
of Light Cavalry of the escort, and found his comrades 
again. Decherac smiled at him; he was always smiling, a 
proceeding which upon many occasions might appear banal, 
but which under fire assumed a sort of grace and courage. 
How mistaken one could be in one’s previsions upon such 
and such a character. Honest Lieutenant-Colonel Poterin, 
who in appearance had so little of the hero about him, faced 
danger with admirable good nature. And that mauvais singe 
Floppe was courageous also; he kept raising himself in his 
stirrups with an air of manly bravado. Black-haired Mas- 
soli was green, and the brilliant Francastel tried to offer less 
surface to the enemy’s shots by leaning sometimes on his 
hostels, sometimes on his stirrup-straps, under the vain pre- 
text of adjusting himself. 

The Marshal passed near them. Du Breuil looked at him. 
What was trouble in the presence of the man who held in his 
hand the destiny of the army, in the presence of the chief 
who had been raised to this pinnacle of honour by public 
opinion? Bazaine, thick-set, heavy, and firm in his saddle, 
possessed a strong face, the first impression of which puzzled 
one, so inaccessible to emotion did his features seem. The 
Marshal’s legendary impassibility, in fact, seemed not only 
to brave danger, but also to abolish it. Bullets rained round 
him without his noticing them; he rode from one point of 
the battle-field to the other as though in his garden. 

Aides-de-camp, estafettes, came running up, and again set 
off. There was nothing so moving to look upon as this 
feverish excitement and this disorderly rushing about. 
Everything converged towards this stout old man with gold 
epaulettes. He seemed to direct his battle without having 
a taste for it, simply because he was there and because it 
was expected of him. Du Breuil heard him give some orders 
to a Colonel. 

^^Let the attack be repulsed, but do not let the troops 
become involved ahead. As soon as the fight is over the 
retreat will be resumed.” 

That was what was to be feared — a considerable loss of 
time. Steinmetz was detaining us, so as to permit of the 
advance of Frederick Charles. In what way, therefore, would 
victory benefit us? . . . Time, opportunity, was always a 
stumbling-block ! 


138 


THE DISASTER. 


They moved in the direction of his escort, the commander 
of the 3rd corps, General Decaen, who, ahead and without 
escort, was tranquilly observing the enemy’s movements 
under the storm of canister-shot. Blood ran from his right 
leg, the knee of which was shattered by a bullet. Two staff 
officers fell wounded at his side. He refused to leave the 
battle-field, and resisted the earnest entreaties of his Aide- 
de-camp. Suddenly his horse was shot dead, and he was 
thrown to the ground. This time the Marshal intervened, 
and obliged the General, who was bruised all over by his fall, 
to withdraw. He Breuil was pursued by the vision of the 
wounded man, the dismayed Aide-de-camp, and the bustling 
of the cavalrymen of the escort. The expression of these 
faces moved with emotion, and General Decaen’s stoicism, 
had brought into prominence the supreme grandeur of this 
little group. High is the prestige of a wounded man; loss 
by death is keenly felt by every soldier. Death is energy 
slipping away, and sometimes the courage of the men is 
lessened by it. General Metman took command, and he also 
had his horse killed under him. 

“ Du Breuil ! ” called Laune. 

And Du Breuil, his attention at its full stretch, found 
himself in the presence of the Marshal, who spoke to him in 
a somewhat shrill voice, but with an expression of kindliness 
in it, and fixed upon him the indecisive look of his brown 
eyes, a distant look which revealed nothing. He despatched 
Du Breuil to the Guard, which was to isolate itself in its 
passive role of a supporter. 

Upon arriving near the Light Infantry division, a Gen- 
eral, who had got down from his horse to stretch his legs, 
turned towards him his yellow, wolf-like face, ready to bite, 
and said: 

“ What do you want ? ” 

It was Boisjol. He was in a very bad humour. When 
he heard that, far from calling him to the front, he was 
ordered to remain where he was, his face took an expression 
of sadness. He growled that his soldiers were becoming de- 
moralized to no advantage at the sight of the constant pro- 
cession of wounded soldiers, crying out and groaning. When 
Du Breuil reached the Cuirassiers further on, Ee caught sight 
of the enormous Couchorte, at the head of his squadron, 
biting his moustache. At the sight of Du Breuil’s gold 


THE DISASTER. 


139 


shoulder-knots, he could not restrain himself any longer. 
Pushing forward upon his colossal horse, he cried out in a 
stentorian voice: 

“ Well, what’s the news ? Are we at last going to charge? ” 

Du Breuil shook his head, and left Couchorte in a state of 
apoplectic indignation. Bourbaki was passing in the distance 
with his escort of Empress’s Dragoons. Du Breuil came up 
with him, accomplished his mission, and returned under fire. 
An officer overtook him when jumping a ditch. His face 
was pale. 

“ Is that you, Decherac ? ” 

I’ve come from the Borny farm. Wounded are in a 
shed ; the chateau park is full of them, and the village also.” 

“ I’ve seen them,” said Du Breuil. 

Your friend is there, that stout Metz gentleman with a 
beard. His name has a Heim in it.” 

“ Bersheim ? How’s that ? ” 

“ He came with a J esuit father to fetch the wounded in 
his wagonette. Are you going that way ? ” 

“ Ho,” replied Du Breuil, pricked with a sudden regret 
at not being able to see Anine’s father and shake the brave 
fellow by the hand. 

Without another word they spurred on their foam-covered 
horses, and returned by the shortest cut to the lines, envel- 
oped in smoke. When they rejoined the escort, the Marshal, 
seeing the enemy’s infantry again concentrating, himself 
brought into action a battery of mitrailleuses. The destruc- 
tive fire opened under his very eyes. A storm of shells fell 
upon the battery in return, and quite tranquilly the artillery- 
men could be seen feeding their “coffee-mills.” Du Breuil 
could not take his eyes off the nearest gunner, a swarthy 
little Provengal with a goat-like profile, who worked his gun 
with prompt movements, with the agile grace of an animal. 
All his attention was riveted on the big, shining cannon; he 
looked at it as though fascinated ; he seemed to be connected 
with it by invisible bonds. One felt that each discharge was 
a delight to him. The whole battery belched forth its bullets 
with a dry rattle. Du Breuil was exalted by such a power 
of destruction. He felt a murderous desire to see men and 
horses fall, to see the blood ^purt and the brains dash out. 
What was life at such a moment? Death only was sublime. 
. . . Suddenly the Marshal reeled, They rushed towards 


140 


THE DISASTER. 


him. A splinter of a shell had struck him on the left shoul- 
der; his epaulette with five stars had been torn, and dead- 
ened the blow. He continued to calmly give orders, and 
remained ten minutes longer under fire. 

“ He has escaped finely to-day,” murmured Restaud. “ A 
short time ago he raised his kepi to salute upon hearing of 
the death of a Colonel, and a bullet grazed his head.” 

They again set off. A state of fever once more agitated 
Du Breuil. The gallop choked him with dust, and made his 
nostrils tingle with saltpetre. He looked around him, and 
could only see nightmare visions — scarlet cloth, red blood, 
blue great-coats, blue smoke, earth, sky, green trees snipped 
by bullets; then, everything which was lying on the ground 
consisted of a puddle, a stain or debris; the great stiff car- 
cases of horses, caisson wheels, knapsacks ripped open, pour- 
ing forth their poor contents. Dead men haunted him, some 
lying in a heap, others lying out flat. Seen? When and 
where? They were unforgettable. Twenty were stretched 
out with their faces to the ground, elbow to elbow, the stocks 
of their rifles to their shoulders, and all round about were 
rivulets and little dark splashes of blood. 

The sun had set. The twilight came. The battle still 
continued. A strange feeling of tiredness, which may be 
compared to the leaden sleep which follows insomnia, grad- 
ually came upon him. So much horror filled him with a kind 
of stupidity. He moved from one end of the -melee to the 
other, mechanically carrying out his duty. He no longer 
experienced a human feeling, but came and went here and 
there, sleeping with open eyes. One time he wiped his face, 
upon which the warm blood of Restaud’s wounded horse had 
spurted. He heard it recounted at his side that the enemy 
was everywhere repulsed, and that the Ladmirault infantry 
had just made a fine bayonet charge. “ Ah ! ” he exclaimed. 
Then he learnt that the retreat was going to be continued. 
Everything was the same to him. He saw night fall, and 
was revived by the freshness of the air. If he had been able 
to express a wish, it would have been to dip himself into 
fresh water — the river baths, the pretty stream which flowed 
in the Brittany park of the Guionics . . . the Opera, the 
opal bracelet. ... 

“We return!” exclaimed a comrade to him. 

What ! return to Metz ? Why ? It was true, war ! France 


THE DISASTER. 


141 


was in danger. Retreat on Verdun? It all seemed very- 
strange to him. The air was really fresh. Some wounded 
men in a ditch groaned. They were, then, victorious? He 
was astonished to hear the roar of the cannon become lower. 
There was even, suddenly, a deep silence, broken only by a 
thousand humming noises, a thousand sighs and confused 
complaints, like a great death-rattle. 

Hu Breuil shivered. Massoli and Francastel had just had 
their names called out; his was called out in turn. He had 
to carry the order to the 3rd division of the 3rd corps to set 
off again as soon as possible. He was troubled by this voice 
which spoke to him out of the darkness. It was very dark, 
but the moon shed her pale light upon the battle-field. 

He moved towards Borny. Great red lights in the dis- 
tance indicated burning farms. Cydalise was tired, and 
stumbled, each time that she did so uttering a little groan. 
Suddenly a horse which was lying across a road rose to its 
feet, snuffed the wind, neighed, and approached on three 
legs limping, its entrails flowing from its side. Du Breuil 
was seized with such a pity that he placed his hand on his 
revolver to put the animal out of its misery. But he lacked 
courage, and rode on, leaving the poor beast to finish dying. 
The freshness of the night penetrated him more and more, 
revived his emotion, reawakened his soul to a sense of the 
atrocity of things. A corpse with a white face was laughing 
there under the moon. There could be heard the dull tramp- 
ing of horses, the rhythmical step of foot soldiers, and could 
be seen dark forms, a moving throng of men, their tin por- 
ringers shining upon their backs. 

He arrived before the Borny farm, where an ambulance 
was established. An officer of the Engineers belonging to 
the staff of the 3rd corps, who was trying in the darkness to 
fasten his horse to one of the racks in an empty stable, asked 
him if he had had anything to eat. Upon receiving a reply 
in the negative, he said : 

I’m going to see if I can find some food for my com- 
rades.” 

On the way he related what he knew : the enemy had been 
repulsed; it was a success all along the line. The deserted 
and silent village was wrapped in darkness; in only one 
window was there a light. Some soldiers knocked at the 
window-panes, in vain asking for bread and water. The 


142 


THE DISASTER. 


officer of Engineers joined them. Du Breuil continued to 
advance. Everything was in movement at the chateau; the 
ambulances were in full swing, and frightful cries could be 
heard. Du Breuil went outside in search of General Metinay. 
That took some time. When he had found him he returned 
to the chateau. Was it in hope of meeting Bersheim? He 
again saw the officer of Engineers, proudly carrying a knap- 
sack on his back. 

“ I’ve got some provisions,” he said. “ The doctors of the 
International gave them me. Will you have some bread? ” 

Du Breuil thanked him. 

“ Don’t go in there,” advised the officer, unless you have 
a stout heart.” 

And he went his way. Silent troops passed, and orders 
were given in a low voice. They were retreating. 

To fasten his horse to a tree, and carry her an armful of 
fodder from a heap of straw near the dead body of a Light 
Infantry officer, were unconscious, mechanical acts. A group 
of sub-commissaries and doctors were conversing in the midst 
of the coming and going of infirmary attendants. Metz men, 
a Dominican and some chaplains were there. Nobody took 
any notice of him. He experienced a little start by nearly 
stepping upon a wounded man who was lying on the border 
of a fiower-bed. He leant down. A cloud passed before the 
moon. The light returned; he saw the face, and thought he 
recognised it. 

“Vacossart!” 

The dragoon looked at him. His coat was open, and his 
shirt was soaked in blood. 

“ Vacossart ! ” he repeated. 

The man looked at him with glassy eyes, in which the 
faculty of recollection was indefinite, lost in space. Du 
Breuil knelt by his side and looked around for a doctor. A 
priest came to him, and by the pallor of his face and his 
black eyes he recognised Father Desroques. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” said the priest. “ I have administered 
the sacraments to him.” He added : “ He neither sees nor 
hears you. God in His infinite mercy has received him.” 

Du Breuil then recognised that he had spoken to a dead 
man. Poor Vacossart! How had he come to die there? A 
bullet in his heart? How boyishly he had snapped his fin- 
gers, delighted to fight! Du Breuil upon rising felt his 


THE DISASTER. 


143 


glove was sticky. He pulled it off. The opal was smeared 
with blood. He wiped it, but did not place it on his hand 
again. Screams arose. The doctors were operating quite 
near. 

“ Bersheim ? ” he asked. 

“ He has already set off with a cartload of wounded. He 
will probably return.” 

Without knowing why, Du Breuil then entered the char- 
nel-house, a stable from which the litter had been removed. 
Fresh straw, which had been taken from a neighbouring 
barn in the absence of the owners of the chateau, all the 
doors and locks of which were fastened, had been laid down. 
The only light was from two candle-ends placed upon a 
window in a little corner, near a carpenter’s bench, upon 
which they were amputating arms and legs, sewing up in- 
testines, searching with big pincers in deep wounds. Wounded 
men were lying on the ground, death-rattles could be heard, 
the naked flesh resembled butcher’s meat; and then there 
was the smell of human flesh and the cutting up of limbs, 
which an infirmary attendant carried out to be thrown away. 
He could not stand it, and fled from the stable, only to 
breathe when he was outside. Cydalise had not touched her 
fodder. He spoke to her softly, his heart filled with bitter- 
ness. With a great longing for tenderness he put his arms 
round her neck and kissed her upon the nostrils. 

A commissary of stores arrived. The ambulance must 
be evacuated. Troops were retreating from all sides. Du 
Breuil found himself alone in the open country. Clouds still 
passed before the moon, and their shadows moving over the 
dead gave one the impression that they were living. The air 
was calm and very pure. What an abominable, sickening 
sight this stableful of wounded men, the candle burning 
itself out, the red carpenter’s bench, a doctor leaning over 
an open stomach — a doctor attentive and patient! . . . Only 
then did his face, the hairy mask of a gorilla, appear before 
Du Breuil and haunt him. Yes, it was the doctor whom 
he had met at the commencement of the battle, the man 
with such pure blue eyes. And Du Breuil for a minute 
could not drive the vision away or flee from it, just as though 
it was over his own bleeding stomach that the gorilla was 
leaning, working away with his long fingers. 

A vehicle attracted his attention. Groans came from it. 


144 


THE DISASTER. 


Around him he saw forms going hither and thither, and 
every now and then leaning down. Some infirmary attend- 
ants and a chaplain were searching for other wounded men 
and lifting them on to the cacoletsT He continued to ad- 
vance. A man, who was holding a carriage-lamp to the 
ground, rose to his feet. It was Bersheim. A peasant was 
by his side. 

“You!” cried Du Breuil, startled. 

“ Who is there ? ” asked Bersheim fearfully, like a man 
who does not expect to be recognised. He raised the lantern, 
trying to make out who it was. 

“ It is I— Du Breuil.” 

“You I Ah, friend ! ” 'He turned towards the peasant and 
held out the lantern to him. “ Take hold, Thibaut. Bring 
the cart round; there are some wounded here.” 

The light, jolted up and down by the movements of the 
lame man, moved away, giving one so sad an impression. 
Du Breuil trembled. Bersheim took him by the arm. 

“ Listen ! ” 

Very low, very feeble complaints, with which inarticulate 
words and weak cries were mingled, followed the succouring 
light. The wounded saw it disappear, and with a supreme 
effort stretched towards it — an effort which did not even 
have the effect of raising an arm or a head, which hardly 
moved the lips, which found expression in a long cry of 
appeal. 

“ This way : come, come . . .” whispered these breathless 
mouths. 

Oh, that death-rattle of dying men — so low, so low! It 
made Du Breuil’s heart bleed. 

“ Yes, yes ! ” cried Bersheim’s fine voice into the dark- 
ness. “ Yes, yes, my friends.” 

But the dying, as if they had given up hope, were now 
silent; and Bersheim, his eyes full of tears, said to Du 
Breuil : 

“ I cannot see any longer. All these poor fellows ! ... it 
is terrible ! ” 

Then, as they stumbled forward a few steps — the moon 
having just disappeared — and as they heard the creaking of 
the wheels of the wagonette, the voice of a foreigner issued 
from the hollow of a ditch: 

“ Camarates ! ” 


THE DISASTER. 


145 


Both had the same idea, the same feeling. Without a 
word, without looking, they passed on. 

The voice again cried in a supplicating tone: 

“ Oh, camarates ! camarates ! ” 

The accent was so poignant that the two Frenchmen 
stopped. A pale face, that of a red-haired Christ, came to 
view in the light of the lantern ; clasped hands were stretched 
out; they saw the soldier’s gashed and bleeding neck. Bers- 
heim began to tremble, and spoke very low and very quickly, 
as though in a fever fit. 

“I cannot. There are Frenchmen. It’s not my business 
to pick up enemies- ” 

There was a brief silence. In the presence of this white 
face, discomposed by fear and suffering, Du Breuil was over- 
come by a new, until then unexperienced, confused sensation, 
one of intense emotion. Nothing was left in him of the blind 
rage which he had formerly felt when he imagined the face 
of the Enemy with his ruddy complexion, hard blue eyes, 
and tawny beard. And the feeling of hatred against the stir- 
ring, impersonal masses of the enemy was also gone. An 
indefinite feeling of fraternity seized him. His heart was 
drowned in an irresistible flood of human compassion, and 
he only saw before him an unfortunate man. 

The Prussian looked upon them with eyes dilated by a 
great hope. His features were exalted. His smile would 
have softened stones. 

My God ! ” groaned Bersheim. 

And Du Breuil saw distinctly that he dare not help this 
German before him because of himself, an officer, so many 
of whose comrades and unknown brothers were lying pUe- 
mele bleeding there. He was seized with a sudden feeling of 
anguish. What a pity this butchery! This Prussian was 
a man! 

“ Take him,” he said in a low voice. 

Yes, yes,” said Bersheim. “ Thibaut, assist me.” 

Thank you, thank you, camarates ! ” repeated .the 
wounded man. He made an effort to rise, but blood spurted 
from his mouth. They let him fall. He was dead. 

Du Breuil, overcome with disgust, could not say how he 
left Bersheim. It seemed to him that he left him walking 
about' with his lantern suspended over the faces of the dead, 
touching their cold cheeks, searching for wounded; but he 


146 


THE DISASTER. 


was not sure. Alone, upon the back of Cydalise, who walked . 
with fatigued step, he proceeded towards Metz. Other burn- 
ing villages flared out on the heights of the plateau. In the 
direction of Noisseville could be heard cheers, and the dis- 
tant strains of a German band, like to a song of victory. 
Our tramping troops, men, horses, and cannon, slowly con- 
tinued their retreat. The moon had disappeared. In her 
place one, two, three, four, and then a whole multitude of 
stars shone out, blossomed in the sky, pure, fresh, eternal. 

He thought of the thousands of dead men stretched out, 
whose eyes were closed to this splendour — thousands of 
bodies which had been men like himself, but which were now 
inert masses of flesh. He thought of the wounded, the appall- 
ing horror of the wounded; the feeble death-rattle which 
he had recently heard seemed to him to still sweep along the 
plain, and everywhere were corpses ; the roads, houses, fields, 
and woods were full of them. He could see nothing but 
corpses lying flat upon their stomachs, upon their backs; in 
furrows and in ditches were stiffened, bloody corpses — noth- 
ing but dead men in heaps. 

The stars still shone brightly in the black azure. He al- 
most cried out with sorrow. Why, why this idiotic carnage? 
An imperceptible breeze blew. The stars twinkled. Hever 
had they been more beautiful. 


PAET III. 


CHAPTER 1. 

A RAY of sunlight filtered underneath the door. In the 
cool passage of the small private house was a smell of damp 
linen and preserves coming from the cupboards. Du Breuil, 
badly awakened from a short sleep, hardly responded to the 
greetings of his hosts. They were old people, M. and Mme. 
Poiret — tradespeople of the town, who for some years had 
lived in retirement in this village of Moulins, at the gates of 
Metz. Anguish had made their voices shrill and their hands 
tremble. They looked upon the altered face, the dusty clothes, 
of this ofiicer who had just slept one night under their roof, 
of this transient stranger whom they would doubtless never 
see again, and then they sadly turned away their eyes. What 
had to-morrow in store for them? What worry or grief? 
And both thought of their poor wrecked life, of the invasion 
that was imminent. Every moment they peeped out from the 
side of the window and listened. 

A great and continued noise came from the road. Du 
Breuil, still deafened by the tumult of the previous day, 
listened with disquietude to this confused uproar — a distant 
murmur of cries, oaths, and calls. When the door was 
opened, he was seized with astonishment. Between the 
houses, the human river, reaching from bank to bank, flowed 
on, carrying with it a prodigious accumulation of vehicles 
comparable to wreckage. 

As far as the eye could reach, in front and behind, could 
only be seen waggons closely packed together, ambulances 
painted gray, canteen-carriages painted green, artillery cais- 
sons, fodder carts, ammunition-waggons loaded with oats and 
provisions — an unprecedented agglomeration, an endless de- 
file of vehicles, from an old-fashioned peasant cart to drags 

147 


148 


THE DISASTER. 


and breaks. Some were half empty, others were full to over- 
flowing. Carters cursed and swore. Some estafettes in vain 
tried to open up a way. Soldiers belonging to every branch 
of the army painfully proceeded upon their way, mingled 
and in confusion, between the spaces. Here was a battery 
of artillery, the guns separated one from the other by carts 
loaded with sugar; there was a pile of wounded, with pale 
faces, blood-stained linen, groaning at each jolt of the caco- 
lets. Everywhere was disorder, hustling, an ever-renewed 
confusion — sudden stoppages, laughter, complaints, blows 
from whips, and, in the midst of the hubbub of this moving 
crowd, the sun and the azure, but a sun which was already 
so hot that it made the perspiration roll down red faces, an 
acrid dust fouling the fresh azure. 

Du Breuil’s heart was oppressed. This road, upon which 
the whole army was crowding, reminded him of that at For- 
bach; this morning retreat reminded him of the evening 
panic. His brief joys of the previous day, the minutes of 
intoxication when the mitrailleuses rent the air, and when 
his heart cried victory, filled him with horror. He continued 
to feel the immense disgust which he had experienced at 
night in the presence of the corpses, the same sickening sen- 
sation, but deeper and sadder. And mingled with his dis- 
quietude was a fear that this so-called victory was in reality 
but purely ineffectual butchery. Success? It might be, but 
it was worse than a defeat. The march upon Verdun was 
retarded, perhaps compromised by it. If Prince Frederick 
Charles’s army outstriped them, they would be obliged to 
fight again, and in a position of flagrant inferiority. 

Every minute’s delay was an opportunity lost. The army, 
which up to the present had been stagnant, had now to 
hastily retire — to flee by every route. Or else it would have 
to resolutely face Steinmetz’s army, inferior in number, 
crush it, and turn against that of Prince Charles. But noth- 
ing was more disastrous than the slowness of the retreat. 
Instead of allowing this long string of one hundred and 
seventy-five thousand men, and the carriages, munitions, and 
baggage which the army dragged after it, to pour into this 
single road, it would have been better to keep the general 
convoys and the auxiliary carriages behind — above all, to 
have made use of various routes. 

He smiled bitterly as he thought of the guilty indiffer- 


THE DISASTER. 


149 


ence of certain chiefs. In changing the command, had they 
not simply replaced a one-eyed man by a man who was lame ? 
He was troubled at the recollection of the hostility which 
had been manifested between Bazaine and his staff from the 
very first. Ought not Jarras, in the presence of the Marshal’s 
attitude, to have immediately withdrawn instead of clothing 
himself in a wounded silence? Was the fear of not finding 
work which would compensate him an excuse for dispensing 
with a confidence which they did not show in him? What 
a deplorable thing at such a time was this persistence in 
misunderstandings, this incompetency, and this indifference ! 
Ought not each one to have raised himself above meannesses 
of character, and have done his duty — more than his duty? 
If General Coffinieres, the head of the Engineers, had 
brought about orders to destroy the Ars, Hoveant, and Pont- 
a-Mousson bridges, if orders from high quarters had been 
interpreted by General Jarras in the broadest sense instead 
of being carried out to the letter — would not the army at this 
time have been out of danger? would it not have started off 
again in good order on the various ways leading to Verdun ? 
But nobody troubled himself. All isolated themselves in 
their limited sphere of action, satisfied if they felt they were 
screened by another’s responsibility. 

Erancastel was passing on the causeway. He had re- 
gained possession of his fine assurance. 

“ Good-morning, Major,” he cried. 

They walked in the direction of headquarters. The offices 
were situated, as well as possible, in the house where General 
Jarras had slept. Erancastel was freshly shaved, wore a 
tight-fitting light-green pelisse with small shining buttons, 
and carried his head high under its black talpack. His sword 
trailed along the pavement. Hu Breuil for the first time 
noticed an eyeglass, which further emphasized the habitual 
air of brag on his physiognomy. 

What a victory. Major! We gave them a rude lesson. 
My word ! there were moments when it was warm.” 

Hu Breuil, calling to mind the bragger leaning on his 
holsters, kept silent. Erancastel, encouraged, continued with 
an air of modesty: 

“ Each did his duty. You know that yesterday at Longue- 
ville, where the Emperor was putting up, we dismounted for 
a minute? The Marshal gave an account of the fight. It 


150 


V 


THE DISASTER. 


appears that His Majesty, holding out his hand, said: ^ Well, 
M. de Marechal, you have, then, broken the spell ! ’ The 
entourage joined in the chorus.” 

There was a great hubbub in the room where the majority 
of the officers of the staff were assembled. They were await- 
ing the return of General Jarras, who had just gone to 
Bazaine for his instructions. With wild gestures some were 
explaining the missions which they had fulfilled, and were 
silent neither on the subject of the dangers they had run nor 
their adventures; others were commenting upon the role of 
the leaders. With an ill-will which was natural to the latter, 
they judged all of them with extreme severity, though a great 
success — Massoli even murmured a triumph — had been 
gained. The majority saw in this success the turning of the 
tide, and allowed themselves to be filled with boundless hope 
and blind confidence. 

Bestaud ejaculated: 

It is a triumph for which we have had to pay, and which 
will cost us dear.” 

Du Breuil thought of the death-rattle of the wounded, ' 
the pallor of the dead. The terrible vision, with the fields 
strewn with corpses, again rose up. 

^‘From four until eight o’clock the battle by no means 
dragged,” said Bestaud. “ The 3rd and the 4th corps had 
their work cut out.” 

“ The losses ? ” yelped Floppe. 

Three or four thousand men.” 

“ And General Decaen ? ” 

Wounded only. And poor Kelm! ” 

“Well?” exclaimed Du Breuil. 

“ Bullet in his head.” 

“Kelm was a fatalist to the end. When galloping to- 
wards Borny he said to Decherac : ^ If I am killed you will 
take my pocket-book.’ He added : ^ I’m certain to be killed.’ ” 

There was a silence. They passed to other names, but 
they were mentioned in the midst of general indifference. 
Each, with dry eyes, was thinking of himself and of his con- 
nections; the best, who were capable, like Du Breuil, of 
being moved before such a spectacle as that of the previous 
night, were overcome with sorrow, and remained insensible 
to the trepidation of the present. 

Floppe continued: 


THE DISASTER. 


151 


“ Ah ! dead men’s shoes are good things. There is Mar- 
shal Leboeuf provided for ! ” 

Francastel placed Du Breuil in possession of the facts. 
The Emperor had immediately appointed the ex-Minister to 
the command of the 3rd corps in succession to General 
Decaen. 

“ This time,” stated Eloppe precisely, “ he has got just 
what he wants.” Compressing his lips, he added : “ Don’t 
let us force our talent. . . .” 

Laune appeared, followed by Decherac, who was saying 
to him: 

“ At two o’clock in the morning some of the divisions 
were still on the road.” 

“ I know — I know,” exclaimed Laune dryly. He turned 
towards the window, from which could be seen the ceaseless 
tumult on the road, and growled : “ This obstruction could 
not be greater.” 

The mission which Du Breuil received half an hour after- 
wards gave him fresh confidence. He hastily scribbled in his 
pocket-book the order to the 4th corps — “ to immediately 
set off again, and, as soon as possible, reach the points fixed 
upon.” Under the dictation of General Jarras the words 
came to have a reassuring meaning. The chief’s mind was on 
the alert. Others, like Du Breuil, were going to carry vary- 
ing orders to the 2nd, 3rd, and 6th corps; and the immense 
scattered body of men, obedient to the mute voice, would 
immediately form again, follow certain routes, and converge 
towards a fixed point. 

Frisch, apprised by an orderly, was leading Brutus by 
the bridle up and down before the door. Du Breuil gave 
the chestnut a friendly pat under the belly and looked to the 
girth. 

Has Cydalise eaten ? ” he asked, as he fell into the 
saddle. 

Frisch smiled with an air of satisfaction. 

Yes, sir. She refused her oats early on, but this morn- 
ing she’s made up for lost time. Her hoofs are very swollen.” 

Rub them with camphorated alcohol.” 

“ There is none left, sir ; but I wrapped her hoofs in wet 
flannel.” 

Honest Frisch ! he has a great affection for his horses,” 
thought Du Breuil, as he opened up a way. A regiment of 
11 


152 


THE DISASTER. 


the line was following with open files the two sides of the 
road, over which there still rolled the composite body of 
vehicles. Brutus, disquieted at this unusual tumult, pricked 
up its ears and gave forth short snorts. This solid Normandy 
horse had more stamina than Cydalise, and also more char- 
acter. This taste for fine animals was one of Du Breuil’s 
little vanities. He had always had admirable mounts, loving 
the horse for itself. But since the opening of the campaign, 
Cydalise and Brutus had become to him still dearer — true 
companions united to his life, the emotions and fatigues of 
which they shared. A good horse in time of war is invalu- 
able. 

He now descended the Longueville road, proceeded twenty 
yards, stopped, and then set off again. Followed by an 
orderly, a small cavalry soldier on horseback, whose gaze he 
felt riveted on his back, he skirted the long files of tramping 
men — soldiers of the line belonging to the Lafont de Villiers 
division. Bent under their knapsacks, their guns slung across 
their shoulders, they stared at him with resigned faces, some 
jovial, others impassive. Their features were drawn, their 
cheeks were hollow like those of galley-slaves, who eat not 
and hardly sleep ; their uniforms were white with dust, their 
faces young, their hands black. As he was passing he 
recognised his cousin Vedel, and, in the ranks, Vicomte 
Judin wearily dragging his feet along. He only had time 
to exchange a look and a smile. 

The immense river still flowed along the road. To the 
great despair of a crimson-faced baggage-master, who, voice- 
less, was- wildly gesticulating, his eyes starting out of his 
head, some auxiliary convoy carriages, loaded with officers’ 
baggage, had slipped between the vehicles of a regular com- 
missariat convoy; and the waggons full of biscuit, the am- 
munition waggons, were drawn up to an endless extent, pele- 
mele with canteen-carriages, ambulances and carts, upon 
which were pyramids of trunks. Whole batteries, standing 
still, reserve artillery parks, and squadrons of soldiers, could 
be seen far into the distance, caught in the eddy of the 
almost motionless current. It was impossible to move to 
the right or the left, to advance or to move back. They were 
fixed there. It was necessary to wait until those in front 
moved on. In the midst of oaths, laughter and songs, 
mingling into a single tumult, the appalling throng rolled 


THE DISASTER. 


153 


on in the midst of the perpetual agitation of stoppages and 
departures. A gray cloud floated above the road, and even 
became larger. The sun in the full azure poured down its 
heat. Du Breuil coughed, the thick dust and the acrid odour 
of this perspiring crowd choking him. 

When near Scy, the church towers of which appeared 
among the trees, he saw, as he turned his eyes to the right, 
on the slope of Saint-Quentin towards the plain, an escort of 
Light Cavalry. It was coming towards him, and on the 
opposite side of the road. A tricolour fanion waved above it. 

He raised himself in his stirrups. Ahead of his staff, 
which proceeded in Indian file, was a corpulent General, 
whom Du Breuil recognised, from his big nose and large 
drooping moustache, to be his chief of the previous day, the 
ex-Minister. A momentary feeling of compassion came over 
him. Poor Marshal Leboeuf! After having been the great 
master, the director of the army, to be reduced to coming 
to salute a comrade who had obeyed him on the previous day, 
in his turn to obey. It was hard. But the General’s face 
retained its heavy, indifferent look, and revealed nothing. 

Pooh! Why pity him? He was only too happy in his 
disgrace. All the incapable ones ought to be put to the 
sword. Everybody according to his deserts. . . . He also 
thought what a splendid thing this military discipline was, 
after all, this inflexible rule which controlled each one from 
the humblest soldier to this Marshal of France, who yesterday 
had still been supreme chief. 

Behind the Marshal, in his proper place, was Blache, his 
red face more smiling than usual. Those fierce eyes of a 
wild-boar of his were lit up with satisfaction. The pleasure 
of resuming duty, said Du Breuil to himself. He liked 
Blache’s rugged qualities, knowing him to be courageous 
and devoted under his blunt exterior. 

A great uproar dragged him from his reflections. Turn- 
ing his head, he saw a red-haired carter, a gigantic brute of 
a man (he knew that figure) who was fighting on the side 
of the road with another convoy driver, whose vehicle had 
become entangled with his own. The men were separated. 
The convoy, his chest stoved in by a blow from a fist, was left 
for dead in the ditch. The immense river, momentarily 
stopped, again rolled on, carrying with it a vision of the red- 
haired carter, his heavy vehicle disengaged by a shove from 


154 


THE DISASTER. 


the shoulder, and of the neighbouring carriage henceforth 
without a driver. 

There was a shout behind him : “ Get out of the w^ay ! ” 

A fresh escort arrived at a gallop from Moulins and passed 
him. It was Marshal Canrobert, followed by his Aides-de- 
camp. He was going at full speed. Du Breuil had only 
time to see his manly profile and his hair fioating in the 
wind. What was the matter? The orderly- officers cast anx- 
ious looks to their right as they passed. He scrutinized the 
plain, and then suddenly perceived a confused stir on the 
heights of Montigny, about two or three thousand yards away 
on the other side of the Moselle. 

The enemy, doubtless. We had no troops on the right 
bank. . . . He took his field-glass, and distinctly saw the 
stirring of compact groups of men. Artillery or cavalry? 
He was seized with a sudden feeling of anger. Those cursed 
Prussians! Thus to advance under the guns of the fort. 

. . . They were mad! He guessed, however, they would be 
dislodged. He bitterly acknowledged the pertinacity of their 
spies; they never let them go for a second. Their invisible 
patrols could be felt swarming around them; and their au- 
dacious Uhlans, like a swarm of wasps, were always buzzing 
about their ears. 

He approached Longueville, and crossed the level-cross- 
ing of the new railway line from Verdun to Metz, the laying 
of which was being completed. In the meadows bordering 
the road to the right troops were making coffee. The Tixier 
division, belonging to the 6th corps, had put down their 
knapsacks. Hear the dying fires squads of men were con- 
versing. The saucepans were not yet unbuckled. Foot sol- 
diers were sitting on the edge of the ditch, their legs dan- 
gling down, smoking unconcernedly. A beardless, pale-faced 
quartermaster-sergeant was snoring with open mouth, his 
head resting against his accoutrements. Du Breuil passed 
some officers grouped around a Colonel who was sitting on a 
folding stool consulting a map. Suddenly, over the heights 
of Montigny, a small white, opaque cloud was seen to rise in 
the air. There was a report, and almost immediately a 
black point, a shell, whistled in a straight line, increasing in 
size as it came. Brutus, frightened, sprang forward, and 
the shell burst in the midst of the group of officers. A mo- 
ment of bewilderment followed, during which, in a red flash. 


THE DISASTER. 


155 


the wind from the wings of Death struck his temples, and 
the horrible picture appeared before him of a head clean cut 
from the body, three bodies which were falling, and on the 
ground, in a pool of blood near the folding stool, still upright, 
the Colonel, as white as a sheet, his stomach and legs shat- 
tered. He turned round. The small Light Cavalry soldier 
was galloping behind him. 

A second and a third shell burst, without wounding any- 
body. As he reached the first houses of Longueville violent 
reports sounded to the left. The Saint-Quentin fort was 
replying. He felt a sudden joy. Ah, ah! they were de- 
stroying them. The wasp was crushed! But it had had 
time to sting. 

Before a long building, the courtyard of which was full 
of officers and men in green liveries, who overflowed into 
the street, where waggons and equipages were stationed, he 
had to slacken his pace. From the imperial arms on the 
carriages, and the company of the Guard which was standing 
motionless under arms, he recognised the house to be that 
in which the Sovereign had passed the night. The alarm 
caused by the shells from Montigny was great, and orders 
had been given for a hasty departure. This fleeing Emperor, 
who had become from one day to the next a kind of en- 
cumbering baggage — a State personage who impeded him- 
self as well as others — produced a strange, almost a painful, 
impression upon him. 

He was impressed by the face of the little cavalry soldier ; 
it now impressed the naive joy of the hadaud. Then those 
eyes of an inhabitant of a faubourg twinkled, and a common 
street expression deformed the corner of his mouth. Du 
Breuil once more saw the dinner at Saint-Cloud, the august 
face upon which was an expression of suffering and dejec- 
tion; again he felt that impulse which had already drawn 
him towards FTapoleon; then, saddened, he thought, “The 
prestige of misfortune! A fine piece of fudge.” 

It took one hour to ride the two kilometres separating 
Longueville from the Ban Saint-Martin. As he was passing 
a regiment of men of the line, who were at rest, an insup- 
portable stench made his heart rise in his throat. He 
stopped up his nose. Some soldiers who were passing on a 
waggon for leading oats cried jeeringly: 

“ Heap of carrion ! ” 


156 


THE DISASTER. 


“ Imbeciles I ” exclaimed scornful, somewhat envious 
voices. 

But there was no doubt about it. That smell I The 
whole regiment aroused itself, and, from the saucepans 
rapidly unbuckled from their knapsacks, each man quickly 
threw far into the fields his four days’ supply of cooked meat, 
which had decomposed in the sun. 

The Ban Saint-Martin, with its tall masses of verdure 
quite white with dust, its naked plain crowded with innumer- 
able vehicles, maintained there by exhausted baggage-mas- 
ters, appeared in sight. All of them were waiting to take 
their place, watching for a favorable opportunity to 
slip in. . . . 

Troops were still leaving Metz — a whole division of them, 
which was slowly advancing: the Zouaves and the Grena- 
diers of the Guard. Under the coating of dust, white gal- 
loons mingled with the blue coats, which, like the scarlet 
trousers and the wide breeches of the Zouaves, had become 
white. Each face appeared to be covered with a mask, and 
the moustaches were as though sprinkled with flour. 

A distant report — the explosion of a mine, the echo of 
which was repeated to infinity — then made each one start. 

It is the Longueville bridge which has been blown up,” 
said a peasant at the head of his horses, near Du Breuil. 

It was noon when he arrived near the Maison de Planches. 
He had been in the saddle for four hours, and had hardly 
covered four miles. The 3rd and the 4th corps had not yet 
raised their camps. The troops, harassed by the combat of 
the previous day, by the long night march, and by sleepless- 
ness, lined the road. Exhausted men were sleeping in the 
ditch. Around the piles of arms were standing the over- 
fatigued sentinels, leaning upon their chassepots. 

On all sides were soldiers breathing irregularly in their 
heavy sleep, their faces congested, legs here and there, bodies 
stretched out on the very spot where they had fallen overcome 
by fatigue. Some soldiers were repairing their clothes, re- 
sewing their shoes with string. Upon seeing the staff officer 
and the little cavalry soldier, a corporal, who was in the 
course of mending his red trousers with a piece of blue cloth, 
took his pipe from his mouth. 

The headquarters of the 4th corps ? ” asked Du Breuil. 

The man shrugged his shoulders, his elbows sticking out. 


THE DISASTER. 


157 


and a vacant look in his eyes. He did not know. Hear the 
officers’ mess were erected some tents, and on all sides could 
be seen saucepans, blackened by smoke, licked by small 
tongues of flame, which rested upon little ovens hollowed 
out in the ground, or constructed of three stones, and in 
which the soldiers’ soupe was being cooked. 

He wandered about for a long time, and after receiving 
direction after direction reached Sansonnet. General Lad- 
mirault was leaving table. He listened to the reading of the 
order written down by Du Breuil in his note-book. His anx- 
ious look took in the meadows where his divisions were en- 
camped, the roads crowded with vehicles, the green mass of 
the Saint- Quentin. Between the heights, the hollow in 
the hill of Lessy indented the clear sky — an indentation of 
azure through which passed dense white clouds swept by the 
west wind. One could hear an almost insensible rumbling — 
the distant murmur of the army on the march. The General 
turned towards the chief of his staff. They consulted to- 
gether. Ladmirault was saying: 

It’s easy to order the movement to be hurried on. As 
if they didn’t know that all these roads are obstructed ! ” 
He raised his voice. “ On the Chatel side, the road, which 
is not broad, is blocked for a considerable distance by a 
bridge equipage. There’s baggage belonging to all the 
corps; there’s everything — artillery and reserves. In what 
way do they want me to pass? Why not use the Briey 
road ? ” 

When his mission was accomplished, Du Breuil shook the 
Comte de Cussac, an Aide-de-camp, by the hand — that offi- 
cer of whom he had asked poor Vacossart for news the day 
before. They were members of the same club; both had 
kept more than one bank at the Sporting Club, and finished 
more than one supper between Rose Noel and Nini Deglaure. 
Strange these recollections appeared to him. Had he really 
lived like that in the past ? For the past fortnight they had 
been other men; they found themselves changed. 

After eating a wing of a chicken and drinking a glass of 
bordeaux — ^the little cavalry soldier devoured the carcass, 
and emptied the bottom of the bottle — Du Breuil set off 
again. He again passed through the camp of the 3rd corps, 
which he found in a state of commotion, owing to the order 
to leave. Tents were being pulled down, and the baggage 


158 


THE DISASTEK. 


was being loaded ; some piles of arms were already unlocked ; 
the troops were forming into line. 

At the gates of Metz, and at the Ban Saint-Martin, the 
invasion recommenced. Under the leaden sky, it was the 
same tumult, the same forward advance of the river of men 
and vehicles, perspiring, sorrowful, suffering, swearing, the 
horses falling down, the drivers whipping and beating their 
teams under the blinding dust and the fierce sun. Du Breuil 
passed fresh regiments, which halted every instant. And 
whenever they halted men fell down like leaden masses ; the 
reserves especially could hold out no longer, and, without 
the strength to unbuckle their knapsacks, many of them, 
with red faces, immediately fell asleep. But two or three 
minutes later it was necessary to set off again, and non-com- 
missioned officers shook these unfortunate sleepers, who, 
without a complaint, once more stood upright, and once more 
se"; off with the air of sleep-walkers. 

Every now and then he recognised some of his comrades 
of the general staff, who were trying to put things a little in 
order. Kestaud, whom he met near Longueville, informed 
him that the Marshal had ordered the disbanding of the aux- 
iliary carriages. 

“ But they carry the provisions ? ” said Du Breuil. 

“We shall find provisions on the way.” 

“ It would have been simpler, to have utilized since yester- 
day the Lorry and Woippy roads, or to have left the provi- 
sions in Metz,” he growled. 

He could not understand the conduct of a chief who, in 
full retreat before a daring enemy, waited until useless im- 
pedimenta had produced such disorder, so disastrous a state 
of obstruction, to get rid of it. 

“ What’s the use of discussing the matter ? ” exclaimed 
Restaud. “ I simply do what I’m told.” 

Once discharged, however, the carriages could not be 
disbanded. They had then to be taken to the rear. Those 
which had not passed through Longueville were prepared to 
turn back along the road; the others, caught in the defile, 
were obliged to advance, since by turning round they would 
only have redoubled the slowness of the disorder. And while 
Restaud, assisted by the men of the commissariat and the 
baggage-masters, barred the w^y before the frenzied convoy 
drivers, the train-carriages, the artillery and the reserves 


THE DISASTER. 


159 


detached themselves one by one from the confusion caused 
by the first vehicles, which stopped still, pele-mele with the 
infantry which marched past, platoon after platoon, white 
with dust from head to foot. 

The convoys of the 2nd corps and of the chief head- 
quarters, without taking into account innumerable baggage 
waggons, continued on their way, the slow ascent of the 
plateau, ceaselessly tramping under the sun. 

Nobody of importance remained at Moulins; the staff 
had just left. It was four o’clock. The orderlies were 
about to leave with led-horses. Du Breuil noticed Frisch in 
the act of fastening Cydalise’s girth. Brutus, covered with 
froth, neighed. Du Breuil changed his mount and got 
astride the disappointed mare, who began to drag one of her 
hoofs, under the pretence that she was lame. He gave her 
the spur and broke into a gallop, while Frisch, near a bucket- 
ful of water which he had hastily fetched, sponged down the 
delighted Brutus, preventing him by little blows with the 
halter from drinking the dirty water towards which, his lips 
moving back over rosy gums, he stretched his neck. 

How hot it was ! Du Breuil would have given anything in 
the world to have slaked his thirst. At the point where the 
road branches into two, towards Chatel-Saint-Germain, he 
could stand it no longer, and drew near to a stone trough 
before a farm. It was empty. The little cavalry soldier 
understood, and, with a voluntary movement, offered him his 
flask, which he had refilled at Moulins. “ If you would like 
a drink, sir.” He was touched by the simplicity of the offer, 
and drank a mouthful. 

They struck off along a Roman road which reached the 
plateau more directly than by the ordinary way. Beneath 
them was stretched out the little valley of Rozerieulles, with 
its meadows, its red roofs, and the deep green of its walnut- 
trees. The more they mounted, the larger became the circle 
of the horizon. They now dominated the valley of the 
Moselle. Above the winding road, whence arose a confused 
hubbub, was a thick cloud of dust. The immense landscape, 
in a bath of sunlight, stretched out in the splendid azure. 
Blue rivers wound in and out across the draught-board of 
fields and clumps of trees ; and in the still air appeared white 
Metz, with its innumerable houses, the square silhouette of 
the tall mass of the cathedral profiled upon the azure. The 


160 


THE DISASTER. 


Lorraine town was smiling, happy, in her corset with its 
lace of stone. A slight golden haze enveloped her in glory. 

For a moment they remained motionless, the little un- 
mindful cavalry soldier finding the scene chouette. Du 
Breuil was moved to the bottom of his soul. 

“ Adieu, Metz ! ” he said, after a few seconds. 

Pushing forward upon their horses, they moved ahead. 
The circle of the horizon got small and smaller, until they 
had nothing around them but the plateau, and behind them 
the sky. 

“ What is your name, and where do you come from ? ” 
asked Du Breuil. 

“ Jubault, of Tours, sir.” 

“You don’t mind leaving Metz?” 

“ It’s not too soon, sir,” smiled the man, encouraged. 

Du Breuil murmured “Yes;” but at the bottom of his 
heart he was unable to say whether he was happy or sad. 

The plateau was covered with troops. On the Genivaux 
declivity the terrible crowding recommenced. The road, 
embanked in a small ravine, was nothing more than a deep 
cutting, broken up by the wheels and the incessant scraping 
of boots. One sank into a yard of dust, which floated in the 
air like a fog. Men and horses were white with it, and un- 
recognisable. 

Suddenly, when near Gravelotte, as he turned round, he 
saw on the slope which they had just left a man, conveniently 
stationed five hundred yards away alongside a wood, with a 
field-glass to his eyes. The Uhlan jumped from his horse, 
calmly opened a map or a pocket-book, and made some notes. 

“ He doesn’t put himself out,” exclaimed the cavalry sol- 
dier. 

Du Breuil made an angry movement and felt for his re- 
volver. Mo, he would not fire; it would only be a bullet 
wasted. The Uhlan had steadily folded up his map, re- 
girthed his horse, and jumped into the saddle. He disap- 
peared. 

“ Good-evening,” exclaimed J ubault. “ They are every- 
where. They know a thing. They disguise themselves as 
pedlars, and follow us on horseback in white blouses and 
sabots. ...” 

They reached the first houses of Gravelotte. The whole 
general staff was drawn up on the highway before the 


THE DISASTER. 


161 


Emperor’s residence. A little behind, some horsemen of the 
escort were walking the horses, which were ready to start, up 
and down by the bridle. Du Breuil dismounted, and re- 
ported to General Jarras. The imperial suite. Generals and 
Chamberlains, impatient for news, mingled with the groups. 
Everyone was talking about events. Bazaine was holding a 
consultation with the Emperor, and people were waiting for 
the end of the interview. The Prince Imperial, with anxious 
face, went from one group to the other. Upon his approach 
voices were lowered and conversations changed. He ques- 
tioned those officers whom he knew by sight, and attempted 
to seize the exact meaning of the words of their respectful 
and evasive answers. The young man’s preoccupations were 
stamped upon his face; he seemed to understand the seri- 
ousness of events. 

Du Breuil encountered Decherac’s everlasting smile, 
which was sad upon this occasion, and seemed to clearly say, 
Poor child ! ” The two officers nodded. 

Do you know,” said Decherac, “ that to-day is August • 
15th ? A queer kind of fete-day ! ” 

The striking contrast moved Du Breuil. August 15th, 
with the bells of Hotre Dame ringing, the addresses and the 
delegations of the State bodies, the streets decorated with 
flags, the illuminations at night. ... In the bitter irony of 
his soul the glorious series of past fetes on August 15th was 
passed in review. All that was very far off. 

Yes, a queer kind of fete-day,” he repeated. 

“ Bazaine presented his good wishes to the Emperor upon 
his arrival, offering him a bouquet of wretched flowers 
plucked from the garden of the house where he is camping.” 

Ah , that sickly bouquet presented to the Emperor by the 
commander of his army! Du Breuil found this solitary 
homage of troops still faithful truly symbolical. Past ac- 
clamations commenced to sound in his ears like a knell, 
and to reveal to him a fete-day; this day of distress and 
abandonment, in the dismal silence and in the midst of whis- 
perings, appeared to him still more sorrowful. Disquietude, 
egoism, forgetfulness, were stamped upon every face. 

The interview was prolonged. In turning his eyes to- 
wards the closed windows of the small house, he recognised 
the tall, dry figure of General Jaillant. He was not speak- 
ing a word, his thin lips, under his imperious eagle-like nose. 


102 


THE DISASTER. 


remaining pressed together. !N^ear him was a perturbated 
Chamberlain, searching the woods and the outlet of Ars with 
a field-glass. Du Breuil heard him murmur : 

“ Those woods, General, are not safe.” 

His voice slightly trembled. Jaillant shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ What’s there to fear ? ” 

The Chamberlain faced the General. This disconcerted 
face ! Du Breuil hesitated to recognise it as that of Comte 
Duclos. The drawn-out moustache retained a remnant of 
arrogance, but these eyes, in which there was no fear, this 
tremulous voice, formerly so provocative ! . . . 

“He has not yet got over the fright,” interjected De- 
cherac. “ The Emperor narrowly escaped being captured 
this afternoon by Uhlans. They were twelve hundred 
metres away, in view of the road, and they allowed the cor- 
tege to pass. . . . Curious, isn’t it ? ” 

Floppe, who had come up, exclaimed: 

“ Such is the anxiety that the Emperor wishes to set off 
immediately, in order to reach Verdun. But there is no 
escort. The Cavalry of the Guard is only arriving, and worn 
out ; so that they won’t start until early to-morrow morning.” 

Attention was attracted by words uttered in a loud voice. 
A General, whose coat was unbuttoned, bringing to view his 
red belt, was speaking animatedly. He was on horseback, 
white with dust, having, like the others, tramped the whole 
length of the route. Du Breuil recognised stout General 
Chenot, the commander of a division of the 6th corps. He 
had not seen him since the soiree at Saint-Cloud, when, his 
red neck pressing against his gold-embroidered collar, he 
walked away under the lustres with Jaillant, talking to him, 
arm in arm. He was complaining violently to J areas, one of 
his old comrades. Seeing Du Breuil, he motioned to him a 
“ Good-day,” and continued his complaints without lower- 
ing his tone of voice. He was now calling attention to the 
Generals of the suite, pointing out Jaillant in the distance, 
and sneering bitterly. “ Ho need to be so proud ... a 
pretty scrape . . . counsellors are not the ones who have to 
pay. . . .” And Du Breuil once more saw him under the 
lustres, holding Jaillant by the arm, as sincere as he was to- 
day. 

There was a commotion, and then deep silence. The 


THE DISASTER. 


163 


Emperor, behind Biizaine, appeared on the threshold of the 
little door. His complexion was gray ; his eyes, under which 
were pouches, had a dead expression. He wore a General’s 
undress uniform under a civilian overcoat. His step was 
heavy and depressed. Bazaine took his leave. The Prince 
Imperial approached his father. The familiars of the Court 
bustled about. The statf, in the midst of a rush hither and 
thither, had already mounted on horseback, and reached 
their temporary quarters. . . . Du Breuil was still thinking 
of the scene, when Decherac, at table, gave an account of the 
bad effect which had been produced upon the soldiers by the 
sight of the Sovereign upon this anniversary-day. He had 
been present from noon at the slow defile of the army. Seat- 
ed upon a kitchen chair, he had remained hour after hour 
facing the roadway before the interminable throng of sol- 
diers. And without a cry, without a cheer, the divisions had 
passed in silence before this man with lustreless eyes, sallow 
complexion, and swollen abdomen, who was the Emperor 
ISTapoleon III. JSTobody, not even Eloppe, could think, with- 
out sadness, of this reverie of the unfortunate man, looking 
at what remained of his power pass before him. 

A diversion was made by the day’s news. A little oc- 
currence was just claiming the attention of the chief head- 
quarters. The Marshal had left the house which he occu- 
pied for another, situated one and a third miles ahead. In 
the meantime General Jarras went to find him, and to re- 
ceive his instructions. In reply to his offer to bring the 
staff nearer, the Marshal said: 

The staff is all right where it is. Let it remain.” 

People were amused at the annoyance caused the chief 
because of Jarras’s mania for red-tapism, momentarily jok- 
ing over it without suspecting what serious results these 
slight collisions had, and how damaging they were to disci- 
pline and the well-being of the service. 

At night the news came that the Forton division had had 
a serious engagement near Mars-la-Tour. It had had to re- 
treat on Vionville. Consequently, the 2nd corps, its front 
insufficiently protected, was remaining beyond Bezonville, 
the 6th corps on its right. The last regiments of the Guard 
were arriving. They took up a position, in addition to the 
artillery reserves and the park, beyond Gravelotte. 

On the Doncourt road, the Du Barail division alone 


1G4 


THE DISASTER. 


reached Jarny. It was known through estafettes that the 
3rd corps was on the march. As to the 4th corps, it was still 
stationed near the Moselle, being unable to advance along the 
obstructed roads. At the same time, various pieces of infor- 
mation, furnished by reconnoitring-parties and spies, made 
known that German troops, which were estimated to number 
twenty-five thousand men, were marching oyer the Ars and 
Noveant bridges in the direction of Mars-la-Tour. They 
swarmed the woods of Gorze. If one did not want to see 
the road blocked before one, it was time to make haste. Or- 
ders to be on the watch were sent to all the corps; the army 
was to be ready to set off at the earliest hour. And while 
those of his comrades, who had not yet fulfilled a mission, in 
turn mounted on horseback, cursing as they did so, Du Breuil 
with delight stretched himself out on his narrow camp-bed, 
and fell into a feverish sleep. 

Before dawn the crow of a cock rang through the air. 
The dull tramping of horses, which were being drawn up 
under the windows awakened him. Jumping to his feet, 
he looked -in amazement at the unknown room, the beams 
of the ceiling, and the sideboard, upon which coloured plates 
were ranged. Suddenly he saw a portrait of the Emperor 
on the wall. He recollected. He was at Gravelotte. The 
Emperor set off this morning, fleeing from the army. 

It was cruel, the comparison with another departure 
which forced itself upon him. He again saw before him the 
platform of the little' station in the Saint-Cloud park, the 
train drawn up on the line, the green carriages with their 
N’s surmounted by a crown. Ah ! the illusions of that time, 
the touching farewell, the enthusiasm, the hope ! Again he 
saw the gilded courtiers, the commotion of the Aides-de- 
camp, the Ministers, the Court familiars; then the whistle 
'blew, and the train moved away in a flood of sunlight, carry- 
ing with it the destiny, the fortune of France. 

From the threshold he took in the gray road, the align- 
ment of lancers of the Guard, and the Empress’s Dragoons, 
motionless in their white cloaks. Faces were livid in the 
pale dawn. At times a horse snorted and pawed the ground. 
The majority of them slept, standing stiffly upon their legs. 
The Court carriages were waiting before the Emperor’s 
house. He took a few steps, and started. A voice called to 
him, Pierre ! ” 


THE DISASTER. 


165 


It came from the ranks. He looked hesitatingly. 

“ Don’t you recognise me ? ” said the voice. 

His heart beat with delight. Lacoste ! Did he recognise 
him! . . . He was in battle position at the side of the old 
quartermaster — the Saint-Cloud veteran, egad! 

Lacoste straightened his lean chest. He seemed taller 
and drier than ordinarily. His nostrils were drawn in and 
his eyes were sunken. Dark was the pure water and the blue, 
so limpid, of his eyes. Concentrated rage hardened his fea- 
tures. His cheek-bones were red with the fire of fever. 

“ Beastly night ! ” he said. “ On foot since two o’clock 
. . . trimming ourselves up . . . not worth the while ... to 
decamp. . . .” 

Du Breuil patted Conquerant. 

“ Disgusts her also. It’s too stupid. To think I’ve never 
seen the colour of a Prussian! For fifteen days marching, 
rain and mud . . . Borny at last. We’re going to fight 
.... It’s all nonsense! And this morning, when things 
look more promising, we leave for Chalons. This is the 
work of a gendarme, of a hospital attendant, of an imbecile ; 
it certainly isn’t that of a soldier.” 

He became heated in his anger, and unclasped his heavy 
cloak. Underneath appeared his sky-blue jacket. 

‘‘What! you are wearing your jacket!” exclaimed Du 
Breuil. “ What have you done with your white uniform ? ” 

Lacoste growled : 

“ It is growing mouldy in Paris. We should have re- 
sembled the Germans had we worn them .... Then we 
operate in undress. . . . It’s quite good enough for what we 
have to do.” 

Du Breuil detected a faint smile of approbation on the 
hard face of the quartermaster. Silent, upright in his sad- 
dle, he never moved an inch. Lacoste continued : 

“Musette halts. Titan is with the baggage. I shall 
doubtless never see them again.” 

A distant command rang out : “ Shoulder . . . lances ! ” 
The lances were raised in the cold air; the little flags flut- 
tered for a moment and then hung down again like rags. 

Lacoste drew his sword with an angry gesture. 

“Farewell, Pierre,” he said. 

The eyes of the lancers were fixed upon the little house. 
Du Breuil drew near to it. 


166 


THE DISASTER. 


The Emperor and the Prince Imperial got into the ca- 
leche, which had been harnessed at the post-house, to- 
gether with two members of the suite. The Sovereign’s face 
was discomposed by extreme fatigue. Tears seemed to have 
traced lines down it. His breast was still more expressive of 
depression. Nobody had collected around the vehicles in 
which the sorrowful military household were taking their 
seats. A few Cent-gardes caracoled. Their striking uni- 
form, consisting of red trousers, blue coat with gold shoul- 
der-knots, embroidered bicorn hat, looked dull in the cold, 
early morn. Four or five peasants were gaping in the de- 
serted street. Du Breuil caught sight of Jaillant’s ca- 
daverous face, and the drooping moustache of Comte Duclos. 
There was a general air of sadness. 

Suddenly the galloping of an estafette rang out. It was 
rumoured that the Uhlans infested the road. Bazaine at 
last arrived, and almost immediately after him Canrobert, 
then Bourbaki and Frossard. Without getting down from 
his horse the Commander- in-Chief shook Napoleon’s hand. 
The trumpets gave the signal to set off at a trot; the Em- 
press’s Dragoons proceeded ahead, and the driver silently 
touched his horses with the whip. The carriage moved for- 
ward, followed immediately by the lancers, four abreast and 
in column. In the midst of the noise of the escort, grow- 
ing fainter and fainter, through the pale dawn and towards 
the unknown Du Breuil followed with his soul this sinister 
caleche in which were the old man and the child, their backs 
bowed under the weight of fate. 

Where were they thus departing? The impulse which 
yesterday again drew him towards Napoleon once more took 
possession of him; as he had acclaimed him in his glory, so 
he pitied him in his hour of misfortune. Never would he 
forget the sweet, peaceful smile, the expression of happiness 
on the august face. But he could not think of this guilty 
thoughtfulness without sorrow, or of this astounding reverse 
without trouble. Bereft of his former faith, feeling his way 
in the midst of darkness and doubt, he could only think. 

One by one fresh pieces of information came in. The 
enemy was not in force, and there was no need for immediate 
fear. General Frossard, with the 2nd corps, had come to the 
definite opinion that the German forces which had been re- 
ported at Gorze did not exceed four thousand men. No news 


THE DISASTER. 


IGT 


of the enemy had been received by the 6th corps. And Cap- 
tain Arnous-Riviere, whose company of volunteer scouts had 
during the night searched the ravines in the neighbourhood 
of the Moselle, on his part made the same report. 

On the other hand, the Marshal received a letter from 
Marshal Lebceuf, informing him that one of his divisions had 
not yet rejoined. He also learnt that the 4th corps, far from 
having reached Doncourt on the previous day, had hardly 
commenced its movement. ... In the meantime the 2nd 
corps, the 6th corps, and the Guard, were still waiting for the 
signal to set off. Tents were folded, the horses were bridled 
and the men were under arms since four o’clock in the 
morning. 

“ An order to be copied, gentlemen.” 

Laune dictated in a quick voice : 

The tents can again be erected . . . the men must only 
go to the water in bodies. ... We shall probably leave in the 
afternoon, when the 3rd and the 4th corps have arrived near 
us, in short . . .” 

The officers charged to carry the order rode away at a 
quick trot in search of the commanders of the corps. Du 
Breuil, who was now free, watched Decherac, who had been 
sent to Verneville, disappear on his chestnut horse on the 
Doncourt road. He felt sad ; he could not console himself for 
the time which had been lost. . . . First of all Borny, which 
delayed the retreat for one day ; then this senseless crowding 
on the roads, which had frittered away two more days. . . . 
And these contradictory reports. Which were to be be- 
lieved? An obscure hope, fathered by a wish, made him 
preferably accept the last report. The German army, on 
the face of it, could not have thus overtaken them; it must 
still be at a distance. They only had reconnoitring-parties 
before them. 

The weather, which up to that time had been foggy, 
cleared, and a bright sun made the village golden. He took 
advantage of his leisure to write a letter to his father. He 
had just taken it to the post- waggon, when suddenly the can- 
non boomed. . . . Horses were hastily saddled . . . there 
was a furious gallop to Bazaine’s house. The entire staff, 
grouped around the Marshal, saw a body of vehicles descend- 
ing the Rezonville road at a giddy pace, frantically rolling 
along in panic. The frenzied drivers were whipping their 
13 


1G8 


THE DISASTER. 


horses with all their strength. They passed through a cloud 
of dust, uttering inarticulate cries. Then, bare-headed dra- 
goons, mad with fear, riding their horses bareback, appeared 
in sight. 

The Forton division had just been surprised at the water- 
ing-place, and a great battle was being fought. 


CHAPTER II. 

Behind the Marshal, whose white couvre-nuque * floated 
in the wind, the staff dashed at full speed in the direction of 
the flght. Shells were commencing to rain down near Re- 
zonville. There was no doubt about it — superior forces were 
crushing us. A sheet of iron and lead was falling upon the 
2nd corps. . . . 

“ Francastel ! Floppe ! Decherac ! ” Laune’s voice 
transmitted the Marshaks orders, and emphasized them with 
brief indications. Du Breuil heard: “To Marshal Lebceuf 
. . . enter into line ... let him hurry up.” And Ladmi- 
rault? he asked himself. Doubtless, they hoped that, by 
reason of his old experience, he would march in the direction 
of the cannon. He again saw the General’s look taking in 
his motionless divisions, and then anxiously turning towards 
the Lessy hill. Ah, this lost time ! If only this time it 
would not again be like it was at Forbach! If only they did 
not allow themselves to be stupidly crushed! If only as- 
sistance arrived! 

The Marshal and his staff, followed by the squadron es- 
cort, ascended towards Vionville. On the left could be seen 
the hamlet of Flavigny, which was strongly occupied by the 
Bataille division. When on his way, Du Breuil noticed that 
the mitrailleuses were no help at all; they were evidently 
only of use at short range. The firing of our cannon was 
also inefficient, as it did not practically lessen the enemy’s 
columns. On the other hand, the German artillery, owing 
to the skill with which it was grouped, and the undeniable 


* A piece of cloth attached to the back of a helmet or hat, to protect the 
neck from the sjun. — F. L. 


THE DISASTER. 


169 


superiority of its range, was doing us enormous damage. 
A few battalions, decimated by a terrible fire, were already 
giving way. 

The ensemble of the ground could be seen from a hil- 
lock to the left of the road. The Prussian attack upon 
Flavigny by the woods, and upon Vionville by the plain, was 
clearly visible. From the other side of the village could be 
heard the shrill rattle of their little drums beating the 
charge. Volleys of musketry crepitated. A few houses 
were in flames. Walls fell under the explosion of shells. 
And at times, through the smoke, while the assaulting 
column, routed, whirled round, Du Breuil heard the joyful 
notes of the clarion of the Chasseurs sounding forth the re- 
frain of the battalion : 

Ah ! Quel est done, quel est done 
Celui qu’on aime, 

C’est le dou . . . e’est le douzieme. 

High-spirited troops, all the same. Come! nothing was 
lost. . . . The escort now reached Rezonville. The 2nd 
corps, which had got over its surprise, was holding its 
ground. Besides, were not the 6th corps and the Guard quite 
near? They would, without doubt, soon enter the fight. 
With fierce joy, Du Breuil saw the Prussians crushed — 
swept into the Moselle. They would have to pay dear for 
their audacity. 

Just then there came a brief “Du Breuil!” And an 
order having been hastily given, Brutus was spurred into a 
gallop across the fields. 

“ The batteries of the Guard. To the south of Grave- 
lotte,” said Laune. 

And leaping over furrows, sharply turning to right and 
left to avoid the heaped-up sheaves — the harvest, which had 
been cut two days before, had not yet been gathered in — the 
fine animal scampered away. Here were companies lying on 
the ground to allow the storm of bullets to pass, the ofiicers 
flat upon their stomachs joking, encouraging the men with 
a merry word ; there, deserted fields strewn with arms, knap- 
sacks, shakos; a few wounded soldiers, some dead ones 
marking out the passage of a troop. At q bound Brutus 
grazed a very young Second Lieutenant, who was stretched 
upon his back. His twitching right hand convulsively 


170 


THE DISASTER. 


clenched the hilt of his sword. One of his legs was missing. 
Where was it? The poor fellow was still alive. That look! 
. . . Ah, the batteries! . . . There they were spread out, 
facing a wood. 

“ Major! ” cried Du Breuil, upon arriving near a group of 
officers. They were conversing together. Nobody moved. 
“Major!” he repeated violently. 

An officer turned round with an irritated air. D’Avol! 
Recognising Du Breuil, his face softened in expression. 

“ Ah, is that you, Pierre How dryly you speak to-day ! 
What has your department got ? ” 

Du Breuil transmitted the order. For a quarter of a 
second, he intuitively felt that he had offended his friend by 
the abruptness with which he had called out. They now gal- 
loped side by side in silence. It was a slight misunderstand- 
ing which separated them, but they had no time to explain 
matters. Behind them the drivers were whipping their 
large dark-bay horses, which swept over furrows and ditches 
with many a bound from cannon, avant-trains, and caisson. 
The direction they were to follow was marked out by the 
officers’ swords held on high. In the midst of an astounding, 
furious rush and whirl, the horses and guns swooped upon a 
ridge. The cannon were brought into action, and fire was 
opened. 

De Breuil thought of D’Avol’s susceptibility when he 
had returned to his post. In the meantime the Prussians 
were capturing Vionville and threatening Flavigny. The 
two villages commenced to break into flames. Shortly the 
Vionville church tower oscillated, and its black spire was 
seen to fall into the flames. 

“ The devil ! ” exclaimed Lieutenant-Colonel Poterin to 
Du Breuil. “ That unfortunate 2nd corps hasn’t any luck.” 
He added : “ Pve just broken a finger-nail.” 

He calmly took a small penknife from his pocket. Du 
Breuil smiled. What a devil of a man he was, with his 
mania for always trimming something ! The first time 
he had seen Poterin, sharpening a pencil, came to his 
mind. How badly at times one judged men! Such mi- 
nutiae under fire assumed a singular character. This awk- 
ward fellow, with his bourgeois courage, so simple a man, 
acquired a kind of grandeur. ... A regiment was dis- 
banding. 


THE DISASTER. 


171 


“ The Marshal ought to advance the Guard,” muttered 
Du Breuil. 

The calm, heavy face of the Commander-in-Chief, with 
his white couvre-nuque, could be seen in the midst of a group 
formed by his staff. A shell burst a few yards from him. 
He looked in the direction of the explosion, and then calmly 
turned his head. Poterin finished trimming his finger-nail. 

The Guard is useful to the left,” he said. “ It con- 
nects us with Metz.” 

He carefully closed the blade of his penknife, which he 
replaced in his pocket. The galloping of Aides-de-camp 
suddenly increased. The Prussian infantry was proceeding 
beyond Flavigny, and the 2nd corps was about to give way. 
General Frossard galloped up in person. Du Breuil saw 
him exchange a few words with the Marshal, then turn round, 
and give an order to Laisne, who set off at full speed. 

Five minutes afterwards — two seconds it seemed — a regi- 
ment of Lancers dashed up with slackened reins. The lines 
of blue coats waved. “ Long live the Lancers ! ” cried the 
reserves of an infantry regiment who were stationed there. 
And, as a matter of fact, nothing was finer than this martial 
troop, hurled with furious madness towards sacrifice and 
death. 

Everyone was seized with a feeling of heroic enthusiasm. 

Poor Lacoste ! ” thought Du Breuil. “ What was he 
doing at that moment ? How happy he would be if he were 
there ! ” 

The regiment of the Cuirassiers of the Guard appeared 
behind the 3rd Lancers. Men and horses, superb, advanced 
at a walking pace. The helmets with their red plumes shone ; 
the lines of breastplates upon stout chests bulged out. In 
the distance could be seen the half-dispersed squadrons of 
Lancers, the confused platoons whirling in the midst of a 
storm of bullets and flashes. 

FTot a minute was to be lost. “Forward, Cuirassiers!” 
cried a ringing voice. “ Squadrons, forward I ” bellowed 
loud voices from one end of the front to the other. And Du 
Breuil perceived a gigantic officer, who, turned towards his 
men, his sword brandished, his mouth open, raised himself 
upright in his saddle. The horsehair on his helmet waved. 
Couchorte ! ” he called to mind. A naive joy shone in the 
giant’s eyes. Shining all over with steel, his was a heroic 


172 


THE DISASTER. 


figure at this supreme moment of the charge. The iron 
wall moved, the magnificent regiment broke into a trot. 

The horses’ hoofs shone in the dust. With a rattle of 
metal, the long lines of men passed, gradually increasing in 
speed. The whole ground trembled under the heavy hoofs. 
Du Breuil watched this iron wave move away, buried in 
admiration. Breastplates shone, and swords raised on high 
still flashed out. The impetuous mass, galloping like a 
single man, was followed through the smoke with general 
emotion and anxiety. Already voids were being made in it. 
One could not think without bitterness of so many brave 
fellows killed — legendary cavaliers, obscure heroes, among 
whom the majority had comrades and friends. Ah! those 
words of Lacoste — the splendid beauty of sacrifice, the glory 
of such a death I 

There was a short respite, advantage of which was taken 
by the Grenadiers of the Guard to replace the 2nd corps. 
An auxiliary battery arrived, and the Marshal, still followed 
by his staffs, took upon himself the duty of placing it in 
action. The squadron escort remained behind, near Rezon- 
ville. Successively the squadrons crumbled on the horizon 
against the thin line of the enemy, which looked like a black 
hedge. Everybody with oppressed heart, gazed at the con- 
fused vortex, and the appalling gallop back. 

The survivors of the charge repassed in tragic confusion. 
With head on high, and with tucked-up-tail, a riderless horse 
was jumping upon three legs; its fourth leg was broken, and 
hung loose. A chestnut horse, white with foam, stopped in 
its flight, trembling in every limb, its dead rider losing his 
balance, and falling from the saddle. Another dragged its 
rider, whose face was swollen and hideous, by the stirrup. 
An oflacer, the front of whose face was blown off by a shell, 
and which had the appearance of a red mask, galloped for- 
ward dead. Finally Du Breuil saw appear, the last of all, 
the colossal Couchorte upon an enormous animal, which 
was coming along at a furious gallop. Intoxicated by the 
charge, his head bare, a gash from his temple to the ear, he 
was still pointing with a fragment of a sword. “ Forward! ” 
he yelled. His bloody breastplate bulged out; a splinter of 
a shell had struck him at the waist, forcing pieces of steel 
into the hero’s stomach. His horse stumbled and fell over 
a chassepot. Some foot soldiers rushed forward. The giant 


THE DISASTER. 


173 


tried to raise himself in their arms, and while some infirmary 
attendants were carrying him away, he still shouted forth 
his commands, deliriously crying in a raucous voice, “ For- 
ward! Forward!” 

Suddenly horsemen of the enemy, whom none had seen 
approach, swooped upon the battery, surrounded it, and 
dispersed the staffs with deafening cries. There was a 
sudden panic, in which everyone thought of himself and fled. 
A few guns were abandoned. Fu Breuil carried away with 
him the picture of these Hussars, in maroon-coloured pe- 
lisses with yellow braid and red leather belts, sabring gunners 
and drivers with all their strength. A young Lieutenant was 
at the head of four of these madmen, revolver in hand, and 
was firing as methodically as though at a target. The 
affrighted Brutus bolted, and passed like an arrow near to 
Colonel Poterin at the very moment one of the Brunswickers 
was plunging his sword into his breast. The Marshal, recog- 
nisable by his white couvre-nuque, was over there galloping 
side by side with an officer of the enemy. Du Breuil turned 
round, drew his sword, and a sudden frenzy caused him to 
dash on the murderer, who, without waiting for him, how- 
ever, rode away. 

In his place there rose up an officer with haughty 
countenance, mounted upon a large black thoroughbred. The 
Frenchman’s sword was about to penetrate the gold braid; 
that of the German was nearly falling. Suddenly the two 
faces became recognisable. Baron Hacks ! Du Breuil 
recognised his former friend by the beiid of his nose, the 
hard eyes and tawny beard. The Exhibition . . . 1867. . . . 
By a common movement their swords were lowered. And 
while the German, with cold politeness, concluded his ges- 
ture of astonishment by a salute with his sword, Du Breuil’s 
fever subsided, and he felt his hatred rise up and increase. 
The Chasseurs of the escort arriving at full speed in turn 
to charge the Brunswick Hussars, Baron Hacks rode away, 
bidding the dumfounded Du Breuil farewell with an icy and 
courteous smile. 

Away from the melee he went in search of the Marshal. 
Hack’s features brought precisely before his mind the hard 
face of the enemy. He detested that face with his whole 
soul. Racial hatred? Simply school instruction. Former- 
ly, he had felt it forcibly, but only a general and somewhat 


174 


THE DISASTER. 


vague feeling remained behind. ISTow, for the first time in 
his life, he truly hated. Nothing stirs one so much as in- 
dividual emotion. He felt it fully. 

Time slipped by. Where was the Marshal? At the edge 
of a stream was a meadow. There were long lines of wound- 
ed men. A squadron of light cavalry passed at a trot. It 
was the escort. Where was the Marshal ? It was not known. 
Non-commissioned officers were gone in all dirctions to find 
him. The squadron drew up behind a line of batteries of the 
6th corps, which were firing upon the Prussian masses of 
troops stationed before Vionville. Du Breuil moved away. 
A dull noise behind him increased in volume. Suddenly the 
black and white flags of lances appeared above a hillock; 
then, in a cloud of dust, white jerkins, shining helmets and 
breastplates. “ These madmen are possessed by the devil.” 
The men charged madly, sabred and traversed the batteries. 
Du Breuil skirted the edge of a wood. There were some 
foot soldiers firing away. Hallo ! It was the 93rd ! Where 
CDuld the Marshal be? It was not known. The regiment 
was taking part in the battle. Du Breuil warned a Major 
that the enemy’s cavalry was in the immediate neighbour- 
hood. There was a space between two companies. “ Let us 
pass through there.” As he was crossing the front rank 
cries rang out of, “ Hurry up, stupid imbecile ! Good God ! 
Gallop ! ” He turned round, furious, and then smiled at his 
mistake. The line of lances bristled in the distance. A 
poor lame soldier of the line was running at the top of his 
speed before the front of the company. ‘‘ Get out of the 
way, idiot ! Let’s fire ! ” The rifles were lowered. But a 
Captain rushed up and faced the men who were gesticulat- 
ing, excited beyond measure. “ Don’t fire, my men ! At 
least, you will not fire so long as I am before you.” The lame 
man rejoined his company. The lances were only one hun- 
dred yards away. “ Now fire ! ” cried the Captain. Red 
tongues of flame shot out; clouds of smoke rose in the air; 
horses were seen to fall. The men were charged at full 
speed. There was a giddy crash, and this time also Uhlans 
and Cuirassiers passed through the soldiers, sabring right 
and left. Du Breuil had stopped at a corner of a wood at 
the intersection of two roads. Facing him was Rezonville; 
on his left were several cavalry regiments — dragoons, cuiras- 
siers, and chasseurs — who were advancing at walking pace. 


THE DISASTER. 


175 


He thought of the Captain’s devotion a short time ago. 

But I surely know him,” he said to himself. His cousin 
Vedel! The name flashed across his mind. Then, after a 
second, he thought : “ All the same it was a gallant thing to 
do ! ” The annoying impression which he had always had 
of Vedel was modified. Again the blue Uhlans and the white 
Cuirassiers reappeared at a savage rush. Diminished by 
half, intoxicated by the fight, bloody, the Prussian squadrons 
frantically dashed forward. A great noise came from all 
directions, and Du Breuil, his throat parched, saw the French 
divisions give way. Then a long melee commenced, a hand- 
to-hand fight in the midst of dust and smoke ; and above the 
uproar could be heard shrill commands and trumpet-blasts. 
Finally there came a plaintive signal to rally — a raucous 
blast from the trumpet, put out of tune, pierced by bullets. 
Upon their half-foundered horses the last of the Uhlans and 
Cuirassiers separated into two bodies, fell back, fled, deci- 
mated, destroyed. 

It was three o’clock when Du Breuil found the Marshal 
on the Gravelotte side near a battery, which he was again 
himself placing in position. The Marshal was rejoined by 
half of his staff. News? Decherac, showing signs of nerv- 
ousness, said to him: 

“ The 3rd corps is arriving ; the 4th is not far off.” 

“ That’s good ! ” exclaimed Du Breuil. 

But Decherac shrugged his shoulders, and his smile be- 
came bitter. 

“ Our chief is doing the work of a Second Lieutenant to- 
day. Instead of placing batteries in position, why doesn’t 
he crush the enemy ? This is the time to do it.” 

Firing had slackened along the whole line. Decherac 
continued : 

“ A remedy is found for events as they occur. . . . But 
as for a general conception, a plan — come now ! the Marshal 
only thinks of his left, as though one wanted to remain at- 
tached to Metz! Why not bear down upon the whole line 
of the enemy? We should crush that rabble, which, it is 
very evident, can do nothing more. And then the Verdun 
road would be free. . . .” 

This idea satisfied him, and his smile became accentuated. 

“Du Breuil!” called General Jarras. He was sent to 
Marshal Leboeuf with a request to send further reinforce- 


176 


THE DISASTER. 


ments to the left. After carrying out that order, he was to 
try to obtain news of General Ladmirault. Evidently they 
fear for Metz,” he said to Decherac as he passed him. 

But why this strange preoccupation, he said to himself, 
since they were in retreat, since they were trying to reach 
Verdun? It was to their right that they ought to act — to 
their right if they wished to break through. 

“ What’s the matter, Brutus ? ” 

The chestnut stumbled when jumping over a body. The 
ground at this place was covered with disemboweled horses, 
the holsters and the saddles of which had already been emp- 
tied by pillagers. Here and there were small heaps of 
Uhlans and Cuirassiers — a medley of yellowish coats, broken 
breastplates, stiff legs, the soles of the boots upturned. 
One hour before, at the moment of the charge, he had 
passed there. He recognized the corner of the wood and 
the cross-roads. He took the road leading northwards. 

The instant he saw some roofs through the trees, two 
wounded men who were sitting down in the underwood one 
hundred yards ahead, rose to their feet. The stouter of the 
two was limping terribly, and was leaning on his sword. His 
companion, a small man, was at his side, supporting him 
with his left arm; his right arm was bleeding. They were 
two dragoon officers. They stopped and groaned. The 
stouter man said : 

“ Isn’t that Villers before us — Villers-aux-Bois ? ” 

“ Yes, Colonel,” replied the smaller man affectionately. 
“ A little more courage. The ambulance is there.” 

Du Breuil recognised them as the officers he had seen at 
the Cafe Parisien — Colonel la Maisonval and Captain La- 
prune. Ah! the maps and the geography lesson! 

“ It was a Uhlan,” continued the Colonel, “ who struck 
me in the calf of my leg with his lance. But I settled the 
animal’s business.” 

He won’t praise himself for it in Berlin, Colonel,” added 
Laprune. “ En route ! There, now, quite slowly. . . .” 

Du Breuil respectfully saluted them. They were reso- 
lute fellows, after all. 

He was told at Saint-Marcel that the commander of the 
3rd corps had just redescended towards the south-west. At 
last he found him, shook Blache by the hand, and set off 
again. General Ladmirault must be near Bruville, so he 


THE DISASTER. 


177 


went in that direction. Some Prussian skirmishers were en- 
gaging with the first sharpshooters of the 4th corps. As 
shells were passing over his head, he spurred Brutus into a 
trot. Suddenly one of the heavy steel birds, at once lumi- 
nous and dark, which increased in size as they whistled 
through the air, fell. Thy dry earth sprang up, and death 
burst forth. He saw the blue sky in a dazzling flash of light, 
and comprehended that he was falling — sliding. Then a 
terrible weight fell upon his legs. Brutus! Bed blood, a 
hot fluid, flowed and flowed. His hands, his arms, and his 
chest were bathed in it. A pool of blood spread out, got 
larger and larger. The sky became red, the earth became 
red, his thoughts became red. And in an overwhelming 
second brief images crowded upon him — his father, his 
mother, the sweet face of Mme. de Guionic (he was not, how- 
ever, wearing the opal that day) ; then Metz, the war, the 
retreat. . . . Anine’s pale face floated in a red haze. Was 
this, then dying? Was this all? Bed was the darkness, red 
the unknown into which he was passing. Then everything 
became black, and Du Breuil, without pain or fear or re- 
gret, became oblivious. . . . 

“ Drink — drink a little more. Major.” 

These words were heard as in a dream. Indistinct forms 
moved, and the face of a priest was bent over him. He came 
to his senses, and found himself stretched upon a table in a 
peasant’s bedroom. The smell of the cordial revived him. 

“ Where am I ? ” he murmured. 

Don’t speak. Drink a little more,” replied a cheery 
voice; and a chaplain made him swallow a mouthful of 
brandy. 

Du Breuil raised himself. He felt weak. . . . What was 
he doing in that room? He seemed to recognise this chap- 
lain. Ah yes! the Abbe Trudaine! lobbies of the Ministry, 
Forbach. . . . All his ideas were confused. He could only 
make out a vague humming. 

Where am I ? ” he repeated. 

“ At the Bruville ambulance,” continued the Abbe. 
“ You have had a narrow escape. I thought you were dead 
when they raised you up, stiff and covered with blood. Your 
horse was the means of saving you.” 

Du Breuil now recollected — the shell, his fall, and then 
blood — blood. . . . 


178 


THE DISASTER. 


It was by a miracle that I was passing there,” narrated 
the Abbe, in that clear voice of his. “ I have lost my ambu- 
lance; but there are wounded everywhere, and one can make 
one’s self useful. You understand, then, that it was when 
wandering about here that I saw you. I signed to some in- 
firmary attendants; you were brought here and washed. 
But there isn’t a scratch — hardly a bruise on the knee, caused 
by the weight of your horse. Ah! you owe a big candle to 
your patron saint. Major.” 

“ Are they still fighting ? ” asked Du Breuil. 

“ Are they fighting? ” sighed Trudaine. “ I should think 
so 1 The 4th corps is before us, and I can tell you, it’s warm 
work. One can hear from here.” 

In that case, M. I’Abbe, I must be off again.” 

“ But you are still pale.” 

Du Breuil, when on his feet, staggered. 

“ But you have no horse.” 

The laughing voice of a doctor said : 

It isn’t horses we lack.” 

He had just amputated the arm of a corporal of the line, 
who was lying on the ground upon some straw which was al- 
ready red. Other wounded men were sitting upright, waiting 
for their turn to come, with looks of anguish upon their faces, 
and, being unable to remain stretched out, they suppressed 
or vomited blood by mouthfuls. Others, who were more 
seriously injured, made rattling noises with their throats. 
Du Breuil was stupefied to see a Captain with livid face 
enter the room, his eyes starting out of his head. With 
volubility he said to the doctor: 

“ Make use of me, doctor — do not fear to make use of me. 
Let me carry ptisan.” And when the doctor asked him in 
what way he was injured, he added very quickly: “A piece 
of earth struck me in the back.” 

He was without doubt insane. It was not possible for a 
man to be so much of a coward. 

“ Well, doctor, these horses? ” 

“ Under a shed at the Mairie, Major. More than thirty 
have stranded there.” 

On the threshold of the door Du Breuil looked at the 
blue sky, dizzy and intoxicated. Wounded men, limping 
along, ceaselessly arrived, and others followed after them in 
the distance. He experienced a minute of prostration and 


THE DISASTER. 


179 


infinite lassitude. What wretchedness this butchery was! 
Why — why was it so? What was desired? Ah yes! it was 
true — the march upon Verdun, the retreat. 

The horses, which were in the courtyard of the Mayor^s 
residence, under the care of a small boy, neighed at the 
sight of him. Among them were poor, halting troop horses, 
with hollow flanks, and coats wet with perspiration. Others, 
which had officer’s accoutrements, turned towards him the 
gaze of a human being. Owing to an indistinct feeling of 
shame, as he thought of their masters, who were dead, or who 
had disappeared, he left them on one side. A solid Meck- 
lenburg horse was pawing the ground. Gold initials, sur- 
mounted by a coronet, were embroidered on the corners of 
the saddle-cloth. The animal was a prize. He got astride 
it. Poor Brutus! 

Outside the village some peasants were grouped on a 
neighbouring hillock, whence a view of the fight could, per- 
haps, be obtained. A pretty woman, who wore a red hand- 
kerchief upon her head, and whose neck was very white, was 
on the look-out, her hands crossed above her eyes to shield 
them from the light. Some old men, their heads trembling, 
were listening with disquietude in their gray eyes. An old 
woman, slapping her thigh, said to Du Breuil: 

“ Ah, sir ! there are goings-on in the Greyere ravine. 
More than one hundred thousand were there this morning — 
more than one hundred thousand. They are screeching like 
eagles ! ” Another moaned : Mon Dieu ! what a misfor- 
tune! The dead there will be! That has been going on 
since this morning.” 

A barefooted little girl, dressed in a chemise and a petti- 
coat, became frightened, and cried: 

“ There they are ! there they are ! Lances on our right ! ” 

With shrill cries everybody fled. Du Breuil, however, 
examined this body of cavalry which was manoeuvring a 
short distance away. German or French? His heart beat 
fast. Soon he distinguished a sky-blue line and a line of 
green. The flags being white and red showed they were 
French. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was the uni- 
form of the Lancers of the Guard and the Empress’s Dra- 
goons. But they left in the morning with the Emperor! 
. . . The two regiments approached. Further hesitation was 
impossible. He now saw the white revers of the Dragoons, 


180 


THE DISASTER. 


the blue czapskas of the Lancers. It was really the De 
France brigade. In that case Lacoste was there. 

He galloped up to the regiment of Dragoons, which was 
manoeuvring in column, four abreast. A Major in a few 
rapid words made him acquainted with events. They had 
only escorted the Emperor to Doncourt. There, as they were 
not proceeding quick enough, the Margueritte brigade, with 
its Arabian horses, had relieved them. . . . Since morning 
they were waiting for an opportunity to enter the fight. The 
regiment wheeled round, and now descended in the direction 
of the Greyere farm. Du Breuil could not resist the pleasure 
of fraternizing with Lacoste. Since he had fallen and 
fainted, he felt he was so small, so mean, so precarious, so 
miserable a thing. By touching Death he retained a weak- 
ness, a feeling of disgust at action. As compensation, an 
ardent desire for affection seized him. He felt an irresistible 
longing to see a friendly face and to shake a familiar hand. 
Never had he thus felt the necessity of loving and being 
loved. His heart was oppressed by a horrible feeling of an- 
guish, of abandonment, and of solitude. His eyes filled with 
tears. 

The Lancers stopped to the left of the Dragoons. Some 
officers were conversing ahead of the ranks. Du Breuil was 
saluting them when Lacoste saw him, raised his arms, and 
spurred Conquerant forward to meet him. 

“ Is that you, Pierre ? ” 

The two men feverishly shook each other by the hand, 
and in a look exchanged thoughts. 

“ What is the matter? ” exclaimed Lacoste. Noticing the 
foreign initials on the saddle-cloth, he said: “Hullo! what 
horse are you riding ? 

“ Brutus is dead. A little more and I should have died 
with him.” 

“ The devil ! ” was Lacoste’s only answer. 

The thought of death took possession of them, and, al- 
though he had himself never made the acquaintance of a 
bullet, Lacoste became sad on account of his friend. 

“And you, old boy?” asked Du Breuil. “What are you 
doing here? I hardly thought I should find you again 
to-day.” 

Lacoste laughed a laugh of childish joy. 

“ Nor I, either,” he said. “ I can tell you I was furious 


THE DISASTER. 


.181 


when I left you. What a departure ! It boded no good. And 
the forty minutes that I spent trotting like a dumb beast 
behind that carriage. Ah! when I think of it! I kept say- 
ing to myself: ‘We are going to fight.’ To think that that 
should be my only wish in the world : to draw the sword, to 
hurl back these vermin to their homes — in short, to do the 
proper work of a man! ... To have waited for that day, 
as one awaits the Messiah, and when it does come, to turn 
one’s back on the enemy! I wept with rage. So at Don- 
court, when I saw the carriage pass by without us, and the 
little Arab horses disappear in the dust, with their tails 
floating in the breeze, my blood was so hot in my veins 
that I could only think, ‘ Bon voyage, M. Diimollet.’ And 
I said to myself : ‘ This time something good has hap- 
pened.’ ” 

“ And since then ? ” 

“ At ten o’clock we heard the cannon boom. I felt the 
echo here.” He struck his breast. “ How the band has 
commenced to play, I can’t follow the music any further. 
Left face ! Right face ! What is going on ? Do you 
know ? ” 

From the place where the brigade had halted, some black 
masses could be distinctly seen advancing in the distance on 
a vast plateau extending to the right, on the other side of a 
deep ravine. One of the enemy’s batteries, separated from 
the main part of the artillery, opened fire. 

“ I’ve been observing this neighbourhood during the day,” 
resumed Lacoste. “ It’s a capital place for an attack, is that 
plateau. In front of us there is another ravine — that of 
Greyere. Listen! Fighting is going on there.” 

“ Tough fighting, too,” answered Du Breuil. 

A distant clamour, proceeding from thousands of mouths, 
was heard. The sharp rattle of drums, and the notes of 
clarions leading the charge, reached them by intervals amid 
the continuous fusillade, the dull, rumbling monotony of the 
artillery. 

“ That,” said Lacoste, “ is still at our front, farther off 
still, at Mars-la-Tour ; and that smoke we see on our left, 
above the woods, comes from Vionville.” 

Du Breuil started as he thought of Vionville, the Marshal, 
and his post of duty. 

“ I must be going,” he said. “ Good-bye ! ” 


182 . 


THE DISASTER. 


“ Hold on ! ” said Lacoste. “ There’s no hurry. Where’s 
your rallying place ? ” 

Du Breuil did not know. He was going to find it. His 
only duty was to report news of Ladmirault. 

“ I’ll bet there’s one of them,” said Lacoste. 

A staff-officer arrived at a gallop. He spoke some words 
to General de France, and was off again. A kind of inert- 
ness, an utter absence of will-power, paralyzed Du Breuil. 
He remained, even in his morale^ completely shattered by his 
fall. It was rumoured that they were going to charge, the 
brigade of the Guard being in the third rank behind the 
Legrand division, which was in turn behind the 2nd regiment 
of the Chasseurs d’Afrique, which was all that was left of the 
Du Barail division. 

“Hold on!” repeated Lacoste. “You will have some 
fresh news to carry back with you.” 

Colonel de Lathenlade passed in front of the regiment, 
and gave the order to remove the flags from the lances. 

Seeing from Du Breuil’s officer’s belt, and the gilt stripes 
on his trousers, that he was an officer of the chief headquar- 
ters, he made some inquiries of him, and told him in return 
what he himself knew. The 4th corps had had a successful 
engagement, but, fearing the effect on his flank of these large 
black masses which covered the plateau. General Ladmirault 
gave orders to the cavalry to make a general charge in order 
to keep them in check. 

Raising themselves in their stirrups, the officers then saw 
the 2nd Chasseurs d’Afrique move, disappear in the ravines, 
mount again at full speed the opposite slope, leap across the 
road, and, scattering in foraging bands, make a charge. 
The battery on the plateau, in their surprise, had hardly the 
time to fire a shot, when they were cut down, vanquished, 
and placed hors de combat. 

Carried away by their impetuosity, bending over their 
horses’ necks, the infantry, after routing the squadron which 
had come to the rescue, attacked with full force the remain- 
ing troops, and, in the midst of this dense mass, wheeled 
about with the rapidity of lightning. 

Lacoste, in his impatience, cried out: 

“ The Legrand division ought now to be moving. This is 
just the right moment.” 

In the distance could be distinguished the dark. line of 


THE DISASTER. 


1S3 


Prussian regiments, erect like a wall, barring the plateau. 
The Chasseurs d’Afrique, facing them, rallied opposite a 
clump of trees, and kept up a steady fire. 

“ I’m off,” repeated Du Breuil. “ Good-bye ! ” 

“ Wait,” said Lacoste, whose parched cheeks had now 
become purple, and whose eyes shone with excitement. 

At last the Legrand division charged. In its turn it 
crossed the ravine, was seen to ascend the steep slope, and 
deploy completely. The hard earth resounded beneath the 
numberless hoofs of the horses. A cloud of dust arose, half 
obscuring the cool azure of the sky. 

“ The sun is setting,” said Lacoste. It descended before 
them, still splendid, midway in its course. “ A fine day ! ” 
murmured Lacoste eagerly. 

Du Breuil caught his feverish enthusiasm. 

“ I never saw such a fine day ! ” 

Tightly he tied his sword-knot to his wrist, took out his 
handkerchief, and then, tying it tightly around his hand, 
requested Du Breuil to fasten it strongly to the hilt of his 
sabre. 

A second time they looked each other in the face. Their 
souls, in their genuine fraternity, penetrated the one the 
other in this supreme hour. Du Breuil thought of Lacoste’s 
words in the little bedroom at Saint-Cloud — “War, blessed 
war, which rejuvenates the nerves, the muscles, the blood.” 
Thus had she arrived, triumphant, with her train of virtues 
— Endurance, Companionship, Heroism. Her ardent fires 
purified their lives. The sublime hour — the hour of sacri- 
fice — was striking. They were carried away with a joyous 
frenzy. They felt themselves possessed of obscure energies, 
and the red blood of their ancestors throbbed and rushed 
through their veins. 

A General came rushing up. “ Charge ! ” he commanded. 
The savage word issued from every throat, and, like a spring 
which is relaxed, the brigade set off, was hurled forward by 
an irresistible force. One after the other the ravine and the 
road were passed, lances were lowered, and the immense line 
proceeded up the opposite slope. 

Carried away by the same feeling of intoxication which 
had formerly possessed him at Forbach, Du Breuil galloped 
on a level with Lacoste at a furious pace. Ah, the rush of 
the wind as they raced along — the mad intoxication! . . . 

13 


184 


THE DISASTER. 


Striking the earth with equal stride, the horses stretched 
themselves out. Sometimes even Conquerant and the Meck- 
lenburg horse fraternized, giving each other’s noses little 
friendly bites. Still they galloped on, without seeing any- 
thing, in the midst of a thick fog, a veil of dust and smoke. 
Pieces of earth flew here and there. They dimly heard a 
discharge of musketry, then long-drawn-out cheers which 
were followed by an immense clamour. 

“Halt! Halt !” voices commanded. “ They are French, 
I tell you. Ho, no! Charge! They are the Oldenberg dra- 
goons! To the right! Bear to the right! ” 

And while the line of battle undulated, the left wing, in 
front of which Lacoste and Du Breuil were riding, blindly 
dashed into the midst of the uproar of the melee. Terrible 
cries arose. The Legrand dragoons, which were flghting with 
the Prussian dragoons, were deceived by the blue coats of 
the lancers, and thought they were attacked by Uhlans. Mad- 
dened, they dashed into their midst. The disorder was then 
at its height. The mingled regiments whirled round in a 
frenzied hand-to-hand flght, in the midst of an unprecedented 
tumult. 

Lacoste had got ahead of Du Breuil, and, standing up- 
right in his stirrups — how tall he was in that position! — he 
rushed with sword on high upon a Prussian officer. But 
some French dragoons, deceived by his fatal blue coat, sur- 
rounded him. The stifled cries of Du Breuil, who was almost 
dumb with horror, were drowned in the deafening fracas. 
And under his very eyes — even before he could dash upon 
the murderers — his friend, hacked by blows with the edges 
of swords, his back pierced by the point of a sabre, fell back 
with swinging arms on the crupper of Conquerant, who be- 
came startled and kicked. At the same moment a tall quar- 
termaster sprang into view, and by a crushing charge cleared 
the ground. It was too late! His look met that of Du 
Breuil, and in the space of a second, in the midst of the 
odious tumult and the confusion of the melee, the two men, 
their hearts oppressed, bowed their heads with a heartrend- 
ing sob. 

They now moved away, Du Breuil supporting Lacoste’s 
heavy body with his left arm, the Saint-Cloud veteran hold- 
ing the reins and warding off blows. But at the flrst jolts a 
pink froth moistened the lips of the wounded man. He gave 


THE DISASTER. 


185 


a deep sigh, and murmured : “ Frenchmen. . . Blood 
spurted from his mouth. The pure water of his eyes became 
troubled. Du Breuil then felt his body stiffen and his arms 
slip from him. Conquerant had its leg broken, and fell. La- 
coste’s great thin body stretched out on the back of the horse, 
his face turned to the sky, his arms sticking out like those of 
a crucified man. 

A sudden eddy carried Du Breuil away. Around him 
were horses galloping in a state of panic — riderless horses 
which, by dozens, had just taken their places again in the 
ranks; men rushing about crying like animals, struggling 
like wild beasts ; the sound of Prussian sabres cutting 
with the edge, the red flash of French swords piercing 
with the point. He was carried along like a piece of wreck- 
age in this whirlpool of blood and dust, in this pele-mele 
of nameless uniforms, in which six thousand horsemen 
of all arms killed each other under the blue sky with savage 
fury. He moved forward without hearing and without 
seeing. 

At times the terrible recollection, the irony of this death 
froze him, so that he carried out his duty mechanically, his 
double alone taking part in the fight. He fired his revolver, 
he dashed forward like a madman, uttering shrill, murderous 
cries. Then he comprehended to the full the horror of it all. 
At the idea of war his heart was filled with disgust. He 
vowed indefinite hatred towards these frenzied brutes — Ger- 
mans as well as Frenchmen. Murderers! Murderers! All 
inspired in him boundless repulsion. 

When he regained consciousness night was falling, and 
on the field of slaughter, upon v/hich the trumpets calling 
the troops to rally had for a long time been silent, there 
could only be seen moving here and there infrequent and sad 
groups — infirmary attendants, women, doctors, and priests. 
Some peasants were carrying upon a swaying stretcher the 
body of General Legrand, hacked by sabre blows. Among 
this pile of bodies, among the wounded who called out with 
low complaints, among the horses which raised themselves 
up and neighed, how was he to find the man who was 
stretched with his face to the sky, and whose arms stuck 
out like those of one crucified? Du Breuil gave up the at- 
tempt. He now insensibly recrossed the plateau and de- 
scended the slope. He tried not to ride over bodies, but 


186 


THE DISASTER. 


behind him the wounded moved, and his horse left behind 
it a track of groans. 

Suddenly he stopped. A young voice pleaded : “ In pity’s 
name come to me ! ” The ground at that spot was covered 
with broken gun-carriages; everywhere were the bodies of 
Prussian artillerymen. An arm waved. In the twilight he 
recognised the blue pelisse and the yellow collar of a Chas- 
seur d’Afrique. He dismounted, and bent down. The sol- 
dier’s chest was shot through; his hand was cut by a back- 
stroke from a sabre. . . . That spruce face! . . . The 
wounded man murmured very low: 

“ My pocket-book . . . Langlade . . . Langl . . .” 

His breath died away. Yes, it was Langlade; it was the 
graceful and scented little Second Lieutenant. . . . He 
called to mind the senator and his wife, the Opera, Saint- 
Cloud, the diamonds which sparkled on her bare skin, the 
dry tone of voice in which she said : “ My son will also leave. 
He is dying to fight. . . .” If they saw the unfortunate man 
now! The pelisse was still elegant, the patent-leather boots 
were exquisite, but the white teeth, clenched together in a last 
smile, grimaced. And the seductive expression of his eyes! 

. . . They retained a look of astonishment in their glassy 
fixedness. 

Du Breuil piously commenced to search for the pocket- 
book. He would carry out this legacy. . . . But pillagers 
had passed that way. The pockets were turned inside out, 
the cuff-links were torn away, a finger of the left hand was 
cut off. . . . There was neither ring nor watch. A scapulary 
was alone hanging on the white skin. He took it. 

Firing had ceased the whole length of the line. He 
passed disordered troops, sitting and lying on the ground, 
overcome by fatigue and enervation. He skirted some regi- 
ments, which formed in the darkness large confused masses. 
Phrases could be distinguished in the hum of conversation. 
Orders were awaited. He passed through Bruville, Saint- 
Marcel, and Villers-aux-Bois. Ambulances and heaps of 
wounded men were on all sides. Night fell. A cold wind 
blew. Suddenly, when on a road bordered with trees, the foli- 
age of which rustled under the black sky, he heard the ap- 
proaching gallop of a horse, which grazed him as it passed. 
The rider — a hussar, but he could not distinguish his face — 
was waving his arm, and crying : Victory is ours ! ” 


THE DISASTER. 


187 


As he was nearing Rezonville, there suddenly arose an 
uproar which increased in volume. The fusillade immedi- 
ately recommenced. Cheers, at first far off, and then nearer, 
were heard. Some foot soldiers, who were leaning with their 
backs against a wall, arose with a start. Du Breuil was about 
to ask their officer if he had seen the Marshal pass. He was 
moving away, when a Captain of the staff suddenly issued 
at full speed from a lane, and turned the corner of the wall. 
He stopped dead. Seeing the soldiers, he said to the officer 
with an exalted air: 

“You have no fear, then. Lieutenant ? ’’ Without wait- 
ing for a reply, he drew a revolver from his holsters, and 
fired twice in the air, crying : “ Neither do I fear.” 

Francastel set off again to the charge, and was already 
far away before the stupefied Du Breuil recognised him. 

Cheers rang out quite near. There was the tramping of a 
body of cavalry on the march. Again the firing slackened. 
The cannon became silent. 

“ It is the Emperor who is returning,” said a Zouave of 
the Guard to Du Breuil. 

There was no news of the Marshal. A little further on 
he came upon an infantry bivouac, and learnt with deep joy 
that the last alarm, which was caused by the Red Hussars, 
was the enemy’s supreme effort. . . . All along the line the 
Prussians were repulsed. At dawn on the morrow the vic- 
tory was to be completed. . . . The officers were grouped be- 
fore a large fire, in which a caisson wheel and some shattered 
rifie-stocks were burning. Their faces were lit up by the 
ruddy refiection. Two or three hundred men were crowded 
round the piles of arms, huddled one against the other. It 
was bitter cold. The night was clear. 

On a bed of chassepots, surrounded by a guard of sol- 
diers, lay the fiag. Du Breuil then felt that his sadness, like 
a bird of ill omen, flew heavily away. Above the shivering 
sleepers the flag, in its leather case, was stretched out. He 
moved away, thinking : “ The souls of the dead repose in its 
folds. To-morrow, at dawn, it will spread itself out in the 
clear sky.” Before the mysterious emblem Du Breuil, seri- 
ous, understood the significance of the blood which had been 
spilt. So many brave fellows could not have died in vain. 


188 


THE DISASTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

A PLAINTIVE howl dragged him from his torpor. Ah! 
this small bedroom, the whitewashed walls, the beams on the 
ceiling, the sideboard, ranged with coloured plates, which 
he thought, at the same hour on the previous day, he would 
never see again. . . . He was seized with a feeling of dis- 
gust, but the situation became plainer as the light of the 
early morn came in through the window-panes, which were 
covered with moisture. 

He quietly opened the door, and crossed a large room, 
filled with wounded, without making a noise — a room in 
which one could hear short gasps, complaints in dreams, and 
see faces upon which suffering and insomnia' were stamped. 
... In the street, which was crowded with unyoked wag- 
gons, to the wheels of which the horses were tethered, and 
baggage around which orderlies were crowding, he saw 
Frisch leaning over a large dog, which was crouched before 
the window and ceaselessly howling. Its paws stretched out 
stiffly before it, its head on one side, the Ulm dog saw Du 
Breuil approach, and without moving again uttered its sin- 
ister howl. 

“ He has been howling at Death the whole night,” said 
Frisch. “ He is calling for his master.” 

Poor Titan ! ... In the light of a fire at night Du Breuil 
had recognised him as he passed the baggage of the Guard 
upon reaching Gravelotte. Immediately claimed by Frisch, 
the dog had allowed itself to be led away. 

“ He has touched nothing,” said the honest fellow, point- 
ing out a porringer of soupe, “ and since two o’clock in the 
morning he has wept after his own fashion, even when one 
of the wounded became furious, and wanted to put a bullet 
in him.” 

Du Breuil’s eyes filled with tears at the cruel recollec- 
tion. “ Odious, stupid end ! ” And then his thought passed 
from Lacoste — what had become of the body of his friend ? — 
to the most recent occurrences. About ten o’clock at night, 
having found the Commander-in-Chief near the post-house, 
he had silently returned to Gravelotte in his proper position 
with the staff. The road was covered with infantry, soldiers 
who had left their regiments to find shelter in the village. 


THE DISASTER. 


189 


Upon seeing them the Marshal had let fall some bitter reflec- 
tions. However, hope and joy were stamped on their faces. 
Orders were impatiently awaited. . . . Everyone was rejoic- 
ing at the victory, and thought of completing it on the fol- 
lowing day. 

“ At dawn,” Restaud was saying, “ the movement will be 
resumed, in order to complete the enemy’s rout. . . .” 

Bazaine, upon entering the inn whence the Emperor had 
set off in the morning, had summoned to him the Chief 
Commissary of Stores, and ordered him to immediately pro- 
ceed to Metz with part of his staff to obtain there a convoy 
of provisions. He was to bring it at the break of day. 

“ Little good it was disbanding on the previous day ! ” 
murmured Floppe. 

Finally, about eleven o’clock, Jarras, who had once been 
shown to the door, was summoned before the Marshal. 

Du Breuil had a fit of rage at the thought of the orders 
which he was then obliged to copy. . . . He again saw the 
stupor which was upon every face, and the sorrow which 
shone forth from indignant eyes. 

. . Lack of provisions and ammunition compels us to 
fall back upon Metz.” 

His short sleep, his feverish repose during the night, had 
only exasperated the feeling of revolt which had taken pos- 
session of him at the minute when, bent over the table, he 
wrote, and trembled as he did so, the shameful lines. . . . 
By force of discipline and will-power he mastered himself, 
but his heart and his reason protested. So much heroism 
useless, so much blood lost! And tired — exceedingly tired — 
he again passed over in his mind the reflections which 
Restaud, Decherac, and himself had exchanged once they 
were outside, whilst through the icy night, under the cold 
twinkle of the pure stars, comrades went to carry the incom- 
prehensible news to the sleeping and confident army. 

“ The finishing of the ammunition,” said Decherac, “ was 
not serious. The general and corps reserves were there. . . - 
At daybreak they could draw upon them, on the very spot, 
two and a half miles behind, or on the Plappeville plateau.” 

“ But it was the great Manitou of the artillery, Soleille 
himself,” objected Restaud, ^^who warned the Marshal.” 

He’s dreaming,” murmured Decherac. “ The fall he 
had from his horse this afternoon has ended by turning his 


190 


THE DISASTER. 


head. Besides, since provisions were recently obtained from 
Metz, why didn’t they send for shells and cartridges, if they 
were in need of them ? ” 

“ That is what has been done,” said Restaud. 

Decherac continued: 

“ That’s not the question at issue. In reality, we have 
ammunition for three battles. It is sufficient to fight one of 
them — one only. And, victorious, to-morrow we reach Ver- 
dun, where we can take in a fresh stock of provisions. But 
there! Bazaine has never wanted to reach Verdun. . . .” 

Was this possible? Du Breuil remembered the Marshal’s 
hesitations since he took the command. He had only re- 
luctantly decided upon retreat, forced as he was to do so by 
the Emperor. And since that time he had only taken half- 
measures, allowing events to regulate his conduct . . . the 
slowness of the retreat, the indecision after Borny, the sus- 
pension of the morning movement, the surprise two hours 
afterwards, and, during the whole of the fight, that constant 
preoccupation for his left. ... 

“Was not his first step, after getting rid of the Em- 
peror,” Decherac had added, “ to interrupt the march ? He 
was his master,” sighed Decherac. “ Metz is a solid base for 
operations. Under shelter of an intrenched camp, and with 
an army like ours, what cannot a skilful General do? . . . 
Ah, gentlemen, perhaps this resolution which dismays us is 
that of a politician. . . . There we are under Metz for 
ever ! ” 

Was Decherac speaking seriously? With that sceptical 
smile of his, one never knew. 

“ Let us suppose that the Mars-la-Tour road is blocked,” 
Restaud had observed. “ The Conflans road and that of 
Briey will remain open. ... We can still make a way.” 

“ In the meantime the German army,” replied Decherac, 
“ is narrowing the circle by forced marches, and we are going 
to instal ourselves with His Excellency under the walls of 
the Place.” 

“ Is it our role to discuss ? ” asked Restaud. “ Can we 
know the thought which dictated the order which we are 
obeying? Without doubt the Marshal has good reasons for 
falling back under the protection of the forts. Who knows 
that he wouldn’t prefer to harass and conquer the enemy ? ” 

“Ho, no!” Du Breuil had then cried. “Since we have 


THE DISASTER. 


191 


fought two battles to reach Verdun, since so many brave men 
are dead, at least the sacrifice should not be offered in vain. 
Victory is ours, the discount which has been paid being in 
blood. To fall back under these conditions is the act of a 
fool, because it is giving up gained ground; or it is the act 
of a coward, who throws down his rifle under the pretext 
of going to fetch cartridges. ... It is no longer a question 
of recoiling, of hesitations, and of a new plan of campaign. 
... It is a question of doing his duty like a man, and of 
pushing forward to the bitter end! Since morning I have 
seen not a few of the soldiers. . . . They fought bravely, 
and only ask to recommence. I’ll swear there is not a soldier 
Or an officer who to-morrow, when the order is read, will not 
utter a cry of sorrow and astonishment. . . . Ammunition! 
Provisions! We lack them in the middle of France, eleven 
kilometres from our revictualling centre? Well? And the 
Germans — how is it that they are twenty leagues from their 
centre ? ” 

These arguments crowded to Du Breuil’s mind, only they 
were still clearer and more striking. However, he preferred 
Restaud’s resignation to Decherac’s somewhat disconnected 
irony, feeling that there was hope in the simplicity of such 
a renunciation. 

The daylight increased. Du Breuil was present at the 
preparations for the departure with death in his soul. The 
waggons were yoked. Frisch, with Titan in leash, and drag- 
ging the Mecklenburg horse after him, passed, saying to the 
latter: “ Geeho, William!” Followed by its interminable 
special convoy, the chief headquarters set off, with the ex- 
ception of five officers, who were sent by General Jarras to 
the commanders of the corps to inform them of the direction 
they were to follow. Du Breuil was ordered to proceed to 
General Frossard. The whole army commenced its retreat, 
and again, in the midst of an indescribable confusion of regi- 
mental baggage waggons, ammunition caissons, transport 
waggons for the wounded, administration vehicles, artillery, 
and troops, the immense river flowed back by the only road 
which was free, its troubled and tumultuous current formed 
of a series of little compressed waves rolling in the opposite 
direction to that which it had formerly taken. 

Du Breuil and Laisne proceeded side by side. 

Fortunately, they allow us to retreat in peace ! ” growled 


192 


THE DISASTER. 


Frossard’s Aide-de-camp, as they entered the defile of the 
Mance. “ A few sharpshooters in the woods, a division of 
cavalry and cannon, and we should be destroyed, swept 
away. ...” 

“ It is evident they are not in a position to follow us,” 
raged Du Breuil. His bitterness was doubled by this re- 
mark. Or else they can hardly believe their eyes,” he con- 
tinued, “ supposing our action is a feint. W ell, my dear 
fellow, to confess ourselves beaten when we are the con- 
querors ! ” 

“ Who is the rear-guard ? ” asked Laisne, sadly shaking 
his head. 

“ The Metman division, which was not able to rejoin the 
main body yesterday. . . .” 

“It can’t be enjoying itself? Hallo!” he exclaimed, 
turning round. “ What is that smoke ? ” 

Some soldiers were crying out with wild gestures. Du 
Breuil saw black wreaths of smoke on the left behind him. 

“ I’ll go and see,” he said. 

Cydalise, who had rested, galloped forward with little 
bounds. Some flights of crows flew near the ground with 
joyous caws. In a few minutes he reached Gravelotte. At 
the entrance to the village some train soldiers were throwing 
biscuit-boxes and provisions, camp effects, linen, and boots 
pele-mele into an immense bonfire.” 

“ Who ordered all that to be burnt ? ” he inquired, stupe- 
fied, from a stout official of the commissariat, who, dismayed, 
was mopping his forehead. 

“ The Commander-in-Chief, sir. Vehicles were needed 
for the transport of the wounded, so yesterday we unloaded 
a large number of them.” 

An artilleryman, who was in the act of piling sacks of 
coffee on a caisson, chuckled : “ That was a queer idea I . . . 
Instead of using the empty vehicles. . . .” Some soldiers of 
the line took possession of some blankets and trousers as 
they passed. ... A platoon of light infantry pounced upon 
a pile of boots, and set off with new godillots suspended from 
their rifles. Large flames leapt up in the midst of dense 
smoke. Suddenly a bouquet of rockets exploded. Sacks of 
salt, thrown into the fire by hundreds, crackled and melted. 
Brown sheets of melted sugar blackened the earth, side by 
side with dried vegetables, which exploded before being car- 


THE DISASTER. 


193 


bonized. An acrid smell of caramel, shrivelled and twisted 
leather, and singed cloth, went to one’s throat. Preserved 
meats sent forth an odour of roasted flesh. 

“ It appears that provisions are lacking ! ” said a roguish 
hussar, winking at the artilleryman, who was getting ready 
to set off with his loaded carriage. 

“ Yes, appears.” He cracked his whip. “ But wounded 
men are never lacking, old fellow. Remember that ! ” 

Long-drawn-out complaints, appeals, and cries came from 
the village houses, where a large number of unfortunate 
wounded men were lying, abandoned; and these cries min- 
gled into a single groan, very soft and very low. . . . Du 
Breuil then remembered another similar moan which he had 
heard on that evening at Bomy. Thinking of the dead, of 
all those dead men who were asleep, confident, with a dream 
of victory in their dilated pupils, he spurred on his horse, in 
an impulse of rage and horror, far from the fatal plateau. 

It was a mournful road, by the side of the silent Laisne. 
As soon as the deflle was passed, the 2nd corps took their 
positions again on the ridge which stretched as far as 
Rozerieulles. 

A magnificent position,” said Laisne. Go in peace ! 
We shall fortify that.” 

Du Breuil moved away along this same Roman road over 
which he had passed with Jubault two days previously. 
Slowly, in the splendid azure, the circle of the horizon got 
bigger and bigger. The vast landscape stretched out bathed 
in sunlight; the blue rivers wound in and out among the 
fields. White Metz appeared with its flock of houses and the 
tall mass of the cathedral. ... The Lorraine town, happy, 
still smiled, enveloped in her golden haze. 

Du Breuil rejoined the headquarters at Plappeville. He 
found there the comfortably installed staff at the doors of a 
pretty house reserved for the Marshal, and the roof of which 
could be seen between the trees. One by one his comrades 
returned and reported themselves. The 3rd corps, which was 
to the right of the 2nd, was firmly establishing itself on the 
plateau before Chatel-Saint-Germain, the Moscou, Leipsig, 
and La Folie farms serving as a basis. They were commenc- 
ing to move the earth and provide the walls with loopholes. 
The guard was bivouacking at Lessy, quite near, between 
the Plappeville and Saint-Quentin forts. Its cavalry di- 


194 : 


THE DISASTER. 


vision and the divisions of General de Forton and General 
de V alabregue were crowded in the Chatel ravine at Longeau. 
“ Like that, if our centaurs cannot charge,” Floppe remarked, 
“ they are at least protected from all surprise.” There was 
no news of the 4th corps. Decherac arrived with news of 
the 6th. Marshal Canrobert was at Verneville; but he found 
he was in a compromised position there, being surrounded 
by woods. He asked that his position be rectified. Deprived 
of several regiments since the opening of the campaign be- 
cause of going backwards and forwards between Chalons and 
Metz, the 6th corps was, in fact, the weakest of all, possess- 
ing neither cavalry, nor mitrailleuses, nor artillery reserves, 
nor engineers. 

One hour afterwards Massoli, whose hair was turning 
from black to gray because of a need of dye of recent days, 
hoisted himself on horseback, moaning all the time, to take 
to Marshal Canrobert the authorization to establish himself 
at Saint-Privat, with the order to connect himself with the 
right of General Ladmirault, who was occupying Aman- 
villers, himself prolonging the line of the 3rd corps. 

At that moment one of the officers who were on the look- 
out from the tower of the cathedral came with the warning 
that strong columns of the enemy had been passing for sev- 
eral hours over the various bridges of the Moselle, and were 
moving towards Rezonville by way of Ars and Hoveant. 
Similar information had already been received from Saint- 
Quentin. Numbers of peasants also came running up, an- 
nouncing that innumerable troops were on the march. . . . 
Du Breuil was astonished that the commanders of the corps 
were not warned, that no step was taken in view of the at- 
tack which was only too certain. . . . 

“ Why doesn’t the Marshal visit the troops in their posi- 
tions ? ” he exclaimed. 

“ The last few days have been hard ones. Doubtless he 
is asleep,” said Decherac, with a smile. 

“Yes, sleeping soundly,” murmured Du Breuil bitterly. 

Suddenly he cried: 

“Frisch! saddle William.” 

He was sent to the headquarters of the artillery to inquire 
if the revictualling of the corps was progressing. He was 
struck when on the way by the animation of a crowd of offi- 
cers. A hubbub of voices and laughter arose from the group. 


THE DISASTER. 


195 


They were about to sell the effects of dead officers. A com- 
missariat assistant, with an indifferent air, was carrying out 
the duties of auctioneer, standing in the midst of objects 
of all kinds spread out on the grass. The auction com- 
menced ; “ A flannel shirt ; six pairs of stockings ; a small 
silver tinder-box; the complete poems of Alfred de Musset; 
a waterproof.” The bids were at first uttered in a sad voice, 
which little by little gave place to a jesting tone, interjected 
by witticisms and pleasantries. “ Two scent-bottles from 
Guerlain’s,” said the expressionless voice. Du Breuil 
thought of Langlade, the little perfumed Second Lieutenant. 
“ A pound of Marquis chocolate. . . .” “ Marquis, now’s 
your chance ! ” they cried , in a group of Light-Infantry of 
the Guard. Bids were made. “ A field-glass — a good field- 
glass . . . five, ten, fifteen, seventeen francs . . . Stendahl’s 
‘ La Chartreuse de Parme ’ . . . twenty-five centimes. . . . 
A dozen pairs of gloves; two pairs of cloth drawers. . . .” 

The monotonous voice continued to tell its sinister chap- 
let. Was it disrespect? No, only thoughtlessness, a natu- 
ral necessity for reaction in the case of most of the buyers, 
characteristic French bravery and levity. . . . Du Breuil 
was already far off now, his eyes filled with tears. 

News of Ladmirault was received about four o’clock. 
The 4th corps had as yet been unable to completely establish 
itself in its positions. Massoli finally turned up at night- 
fall, red, covered with perspiration, and dog-tired. The 6th 
corps had hardly reached Saint-Privat, and because of the 
late hour could not think of fortifying itself by temporary 
works. Marshal Canrobert also declared that he had not 
been able to again supply himself with artillery ammunition, 
namely, cartridges and cannon cartridges. 

Peasants still continued to flow in, unanimously confirm- 
ing the news of the increasing gathering of the enemy. 

“ The fight will be to-morrow,” said Bestaud in the even- 
ing, as they were taking a moment’s fresh air in groups, walk- 
ing backwards and forwards. 

What is the Marshal thinking about,” asked Francastel, 
“ placing the 6th corps at the left wing ? The flanks of a 
line ought to be specially protected by natural or artificial 
obstacles, and, when those are lacking, by strong masses of 
artillery; but the 6th corps is deprived of everything.” 

Incapable of reasoning on his own account, he repeated in 


196 


THE DISASTER. 


a decided tone of voice these phrases, which he had over- 
heard by chance before dinner from the lips of Laune and 
Charlys. 

Floppe hinted bitterly: 

“ Mind your own business, Francastel. The Marshal has 
made his plans. He is a shrewd man. Leboeuf is in the 
treacle, Frossard is depressed, and there is only Canrobert 
who can give him umbrage. Then ” 

But Francastel was indignant, and waved his long arms. 

“ What is certain,” said Massoli, “ is that the 6th corps 
holds the Briey road, the only one which remains for us if 
we wish to reach Verdun. . . .” 

“Beach Verdun!” cried Floppe. “You’re behind time, 
old chap.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Massoli; “I have just learnt 
that the Marshal’s Aid-de-camp, Major Magnan, has to 
leave to-night to inform the Emperor of yesterday’s success, 
and to confirm the march towards the north-west. De Pre- 
val, the commissary, accompanies him, charged with the mis- 
sion to get as many provisions as possible to Montmedy.” 

“Halve man!” jeered Floppe. “Magnan is simply go- 
ing to ask the Emperor to replace Frossard and Jarras; and 
the proof that we shall remain at Metz is that His Excellency 
has informed all the chiefs of the staffs of the army corps 
that they will have to be before the Chatel church at ten 
o’clock to-morrow morning. Colonel Charlys will be there. 
Gentlemen, salute.” The officers smiled. Charlys was daily 
gaining the favour which General Jarras lost with the 
Marshal. “ Colonel Charlys will take the chiefs of the staffs 
to reconnoitre the positions which we shall occupy to-morrow 
in the rear under the cannon of the forts. . . 

Ten o’clock struck. 

“ It is time to sleep,” exclaimed Laune, “ as much as you 
can get. . . .” 

Sleep ! Du Breuil, though he was over-fatigued, did not 
feel his fatigue in the state of nervous excitement in which 
he had been living for the past four days. ... For a long 
time he tossed about in his warm feather bed, tormented by 
fixed ideas, haunted by brief visions. He passed from one 
thought to another — Bersheim’s little lantern at Borny, 
D’Avol, Baron Hacks, Vedel, Lacoste. . . . They were re- 
treating. Why? He was no longer astonished at anything; 


THE DISASTER. 


197 


lie was tossed about like a cork on the top of the waves, in the 
midst of the tumultuous surf of events. Everything turned 
to trouble. . . . He became drowsy. 

The chirping of birds awoke him on the following day. 
It was broad daylight. Fresh notes issued joyously from 
their little sonorous windpipes; the foliage of the branches 
moved against the sky. He had a desire to close his eyes 
again, and to stretch out once more his tired limbs, but sleep 
had fled. Out of bed! It was necessary to live, to act, to 
get rid of the obsession of sorrowful thoughts and bitter 
reflections. But immediately the nightmare of preceding 
days again took possession of him. He again entered body 
and soul into the whirlpool of details of which these short, 
never-to-be-forgotten hours were to him composed. 

The morning passed quickly. Every minute information 
poured into the chief headquarters from the commanders of 
the 2nd, the 3rd, and the 6th corps. Orderly officers came 
dashing up, bearing threatening news ; then, introduced into 
the presence of the Marshal, they came out again, after the 
lapse of a few moments, with a surprised look on their faces. 

The Montaudon division of the 3rd corps was under arms 
from ten o’clock. Important movements of troops could be 
distinctly seen on the side of the enemy, which was passing 
in the distance before the 2nd corps, and massing itself in 
front of the 3rd in the Genivaux woods. Other columns, 
continuing their march, directed themselves on our right 
towards the 4th corps. Everybody anxiously awaited orders. 
Francastel gave vent to his indignation when in conversation 
with Eloppe. Decherac’s smile was nothing more than a 
nervous habit. Restaud himself was deep in thought. 

At ten o’clock, however, an Aide-de-camp of the Mar- 
shal’s special staff jumped into the saddle. When ques- 
tioned by his comrades of the general staff, he stated that he 
was only going to communicate news to General Bourbaki, 
and to give him a free hand on behalf of the Marshal. 

Laune and Charlys exchanged a look. Hu Breuil, sur- 
prised like themselves, could not help saying to Decherac : 

“ A good method of placing a troublesome responsibility 
on the shoulders of a neighbour ! How do they expect Bour- 
baki, who is in the rear, to act — he who sees nothing, and 
who cannot inform himself of anything ? ” 

General Jarras in turn came out of the Marshal’s house. 


198 . 


THE DISASTER. 


They then learnt that no advice had troubled the calmness of 
the Commander-in-Chief. He contented himself by reply- 
ing to Marshal Lebceuf: 

“ You occupy a very strong position. It is for you to 
hold it.” 

He seemed persuaded that the army, thanks to its defen- 
sive position, was prepared to resist all attack, and, besides, 
he did not think that this attack would be serious. . . . As 
to the weakness of the Gth corps, he troubled himself little 
with that. His confidence could not be shaken. 

However, emissaries followed each other in succession. 
It was finally learnt about noon that the action had just 
started by a violent cannonade opened on the 4th corps, and 
that from one end to the other of the line of battle the Ger- 
man artillery was belching forth with a fracas which an- 
nounced that the struggle was of the warmest character. It 
was only at intervals, and even then very indistinctly, that 
the distant booming was heard, but, judging from the emo- 
tion of the Aides-de-camp who arrived from all parts with 
slackened bridle, there was no question about it — the deci- 
sive battle was being fought to-day. This very remoteness 
from the battle, this indistinct uproar, interjected by long 
periods of silence, this ignorance in the midst of which they 
were losing their time, made everybody enervated to the 
highest degree. 

Orderlies were walking the saddled horses up and down 
by the bridle. 

“Well, we don’t start!” exclaimed an angry voice from 
time to time. 

The complete staff was awaiting the return of the Gen- 
eral, who was at the Marshal’s disposal. All eyes were 
turned towards the closed door of the calm-looking house, 
with its blue slate roof among the trees. Hothing moved. 
The horses pawed the ground. Laune was mechanically 
sticking the scabbard of his sabre into the earth. 

At last the General appeared. 

“You can unsaddle, gentlemen,” he said, in an ill-re- 
signed tone of voice. 

Eh! what? Unsaddle? The General is mad! . . . All 
faces were turned towards him with an air of stupefaction 
and an incredulous wrinkling of the brows. . . . He had to 
repeat the order. The Commander-in-Chief considered that 


THE DISASTER. 


199 


the ^tfair could not be serious. It was not worth while 
troubling themselves. Office work was to be recommenced 
as soon as possible. They were to occupy themselves with 
the promotion-table, “ so impatiently awaited by the army.” 

The promotion-table ! Du Breuil with difficulty sup- 
pressed his sneers. ... It was indeed a question of the pro- 
motion-table at this hour, when Death was mowing men 
down so near them. He was undertaking to draw it up for 
them in red ink ! 

As the horses were moving away, a Captain of dragoons 
rode up, stopped suddenly before the Marshal’s house, and 
threw his bridle to an orderly. The man was engaged in 
conversation. He belonged to the 6th corps. 

“ It’s getting very warm at Saint-Privat. ... At that 
rate ammunition will soon run out.” 

In the common room were bundles of papers upon fold- 
ing-tables, and the scratching of pens could be heard. ... It 
was stifling inside. The flies, maddened by the heat, were 
really insupportable. . . . The sound of galloping horses 
came in through the open windows. . . . Every head was 
raised. . . . There was a questioning look in every eye. The 
same expression of anguish and expectancy stiffened their 
faces. . . . Nothing, still nothing! . . . And papers accumu- 
lated, pens scratched. 

At two o’clock they had a quickly passing hope; the 
Marshal had just mounted on horseback. They were all 
preparing to follow him, when General Jarras was informed 
that he had to see that work was continued. The Marshal 
had no need of is staff. Five officers only were to re- 
join him at Fort Saint-Quentin. Du Breuil was among 
the number, and consequently was momentarily filled with 
joy. This inaction, this drudgery of writing, which was 
using up thirty young officers, boiling over with rage, while a 
few kilometres away their services were badly needed, was 
enough to drive one mad. 

These five chosen ones were moving away when an artil- 
lery Captain, the flanks of whose horse were flecked with 
foam and blood, met them. Quite out of breath, he asked 
for information about the position of the reserve park of 
artillery. Questioned by Du Breuil, he spoke out : 

Canrobert has no more ammunition. . . . Things are 
going badly. He asks for an infantry division. At first 
14 


200 


THE DISASTER. 


Bazaine had agreed to let him have it. . . . But he has re- 
ceived a letter from I don’t know what General announcing 

that, on the other hand, all is going well He then 

shrugged his shoulders, saying to me ‘ You see! ’ ” 

Headed by Laune and two Majors, Du Breuil somewhat in 
the rear with Francastel, the five officers scaled at a gallop 
the steep rocky slope of Saint- Quentin. It was a question 
whether the Marshal was still there. 

“ He must have reached the battle-field,” said Du Breuil 
to himself. 

Upon reaching the plateau, what was his astonishment 
to see the Commander-in-Chief, dismounted from his horse, 
with his back turned towards the horizon in flames, and him- 
self pointing three twelve-pounders against a few Prussian 
battalions which were stationed on the heights on the Ars 
side! This strange spectacle surprised even Francastel. 
Laune could not stand it any longer. Pointing out to the 
Marshal, who was turned towards the south, the north-west 
direction, he remarked to him the intensity of the fire. 
Smoke arose above the woods, in the direction of Amanvil- 
lers and Saint-Privat. It was easy to understand that the 
enemy was bearing down upon our right, in order to drive 
us into the valley, and, by intercepting the Briey road, stop 
up our last outlet. But the Marshal contented himself by 
saying : 

They hold good positions ; let them defend them. 
Upon seeing Laune’s look of astonishment, he added: “Be- 
sides, I am going to send two reserve batteries to the Briey 
road outlet to guard it, if necessary.” 

Aides-de-camp suddenly appeared in search of him. They 
spurred on their horses to the very feet of the stout man, 
who watched their approach with indifference, delivered their 
despatches, saluted, and set off again. The five officers 
walked about, stupid, struggling hard to understand their 
chief’s thought. What were they doing there? Sometimes 
the noise of the cannonade almost completely ceased. They 
anxiously listened, and scrutinized the horizon. The Mar- 
shal concentrated his attention, however, on the little diver- 
sions which the enemy attempted before Ars, upon which 
side there was no danger. The cannon of the Place and the 
fort was sufficient to stop any serious attack. 

“ Always his fear of being cut off from Metz,” thought 


THE DISASTER. 


201 


Du Breuil. “To think that time is passing, and that we are 
musing here, that the destiny of the army, perhaps that of 
France, is in the balance at this moment! ” 

The tall figure of Colonel Charlys suddenly arose near 
them. He had just concluded his reconnaissance of a line 
of positions in the rear. He reported on it to the Marshal. 
Du Breuil then recalled the last words of Floppe. . . . He 
attached no importance to them. ... If the Marshal was 
still thinking of falling back, would he thus leave thousands 
of men to be massacred? . . . But one of their companions 
of the chief headquarters arrived. Sent to General Fros- 
sard, he had voluntarily pushed forward to the 3rd corps, 
and brought back news of it. Marshal Leboeuf had just 
withstood a very vigorous attack, and asked for reinforce- 
ments. “ Just now,” he added, “ I met the Light Infantry 
of the Guard on the Lessy hill with General Boisjol, who will 
be only too glad to march.” The cannon was no longer 
heard. Smoke alone arose in the north-west. After one 
hour, when the Marshal was remounting his horse, the roar 
of the struggle again broke forth. He did not appear to 
trouble himself about it, but descended the steep slope at a 
walk, and crossed the bivouacs of the general reserve of the 
artillery. The shining guns were arranged in rows in the 
artillery park. The horses were not even harnessed. The 
five officers followed him with bowed heads, and in silence. 
Further on were the reserve batteries of the Guard, which 
were also unyoked. A distant rumbling was heard. What 
was Bazaine thinking about to allow these hundred and 
twenty guns of big calibre to remain there silent, when the 
6th corps was without artillery, when the German cannon 
was everywhere crushing ours ? And Du Breuil felt a desire 
to shout at him, at this stout, blind, and deaf man, whose 
bowed back and thick neck with its gold embroidery he saw : 
“ But they are fighting ! they fight I Go and see ! ” 

The path again rose, and this time issued on to the Plappe- 
ville plateau. At this distance, greater still from the 
battle-field, no noise could be heard. But some officers of 
the 6th corps passed at a gallop with some caissons, which 
they were going to refill at the large park. Others came 
galloping up from General Bourbaki, who asked for the 
whole of his reserve. The extraordinary calm of the Mar- 
shal ended by his suite being impressed. 


202 


THE DISASTER. 


“ Restaud is perhaps right,” thought Du Breuil. Per- 
haps he has special information which puts him at his 
ease. ... It is with a full knowledge of the state of affairs 
that he places the matter in the hands of his lieutenants. 
. . . He might be the most incapable of men, and give an 
account of himself; but in that case he would be acting, 
trying to impose upon them. He might be worse still, the 
most cunning of . . . Ho, no; those thoughts were good 
enough for Floppe ! A Commander-in-Chief could not dis- 
interest himself at this point of thq battle, if he really 
thought that the lot of his troops was compromised by it. 
The Marshal’s long and glorious past, his legendary coolness, 
and his reputation for being a skilful General, forbade all 
suspicion. Appearances certainly condemned him. . . . But 
ought one to pay much attention to appearances ? ” Du 
Breuil also recollected that personal bravery which he had 
more than once admired. If Bazaine acted in this manner 
it was because he had a reason for doing so. Doubtless 
there was a reason why he should not be on the very scene 
of the fight. 

Suddenly, as they reached one of the dominating points 
of the plateau, whence could be seen the Briey road, the 
Marshal stopped. Laune and Du Breuil were behind him. 
Civil carriages, train equipages, horsemen of the escort, were 
fieeing pele-mele in the direction of Metz. A yellowish 
cloud whirled into the air. Was it a disbanded convoy or 
routed artillery? It was not known. The dust prevented 
one from distinguishing the forms which passed in this ap- 
palling panic. The Marshal murmured : 

“ What can be done with such troops ? ” 

The two officers quivered. They had seen these troops 
put to the test, and they did not merit this reproach. Du 
Breuil felt hurt, and tried to catch Laune’s eye, but the 
Colonel was turning away his head. 

The two reserve batteries arrived. The Marshal decided 
upon the position they were to occupy, and, as though he had 
foreseen everything and repaired everything, set off again 
with the same impassibility. 

On their way, near Plappeville, they met some officers of 
Bourbaki’s staff. The Marshal questioned them. They were 
going to rejoin their chief. 

“ Useless ! ” said Bazaine. “ Everything is going well. 


THE DISASTER. 


203 


The day may be concluded to be at an end. The Guard is 
going to return.” 

A few minutes later the Marshal reached Plappeville, 
and thanked the officers. Du Breuil watched the large 
door of the house open. Orderlies rushed forward. The 
Marshal had already disappeared. The door silently 
closed. One could only see the quiet street, a roof shining 
among the foliage, heavy masses of verdure under the blue 
sky. 

When he entered the common room, Du Breuil was so 
assailed by questions that he did not know to whom to listen. 
Those staff officers who had been shut up for hours, who had 
never stirred from their work, ill disguised their rancour. 
Half mad with impatience and curiosity, they spoke all at 
once. 

“ What is happening ? What ! the Marshal did not send 
anyone to the field of action? Then, things were not seri- 
ous ? The enemy was repulsed ? ” 

The majority received this news with satisfaction. The 
moment the Marshal returned, and the Guard was going 
to return, it showed we had victoriously resisted every attack. 
Besides, here they had heard almost nothing. . . . Floppe 
alone asked, with a malicious smile: 

And up there at Saint-Quentin ? ” 

Upon hearing FrancasteFs affirmation that he had dis- 
tinctly heard the noise of a cannonade, but that the Marshal 
had not seemed to notice it, Floppe’s smile was accen- 
tuated. 

There is no one so deaf as he who ” he commenced. 

A look from Laune cut short the end of the proverb. 

The perfidious insinuation refuted the secret preoccupa- 
tions which for the past two days had not ceased to harass 
Du Breuil. Ho! Bazaine could not really be thinking of 
falling back under Metz! Ho! Bazaine could not allow 
Canrobert after Frossard to be crushed with a joyous heart! 
. . . Could a glorious soldier, in whom the Sovereign and the 
country had placed their hope, a Marshal of France, be ac- 
cessible in this solemn hour to such miserable calculations, 
to such suspicious and shameful thoughts? . . . Besides, 
how could one suppose an intelligent man to be capable of 
such a want of comprehension of his interests, of so deep and 
sudden an ineptitude? The Marshal’s conduct since the 


204 


THE DISASTER. 


morning could only be dictated by the absolute conviction, 
the certainty, that the army was running no risk. 

Evening was falling. For some time the cannon had 
been silent. 'No news arrived, but everyone, having become 
calm again, was confidently waiting. About seven o’clock 
Du Breuil thought he could hear a low rumbling. Floppe 
pricked up his ears. 

“ Ah ! ” he exclaimed, “ it is recommencing.” 

^ This state of doubt was odious. Du Breuil felt that he 
could restrain himself no longer. To obtain permission 
from General Jarras to go in search of news, and to saddle 
his horse, was the work of a moment. 

He now passed over the road, but in an opposite direction, 
which had led him back to the chief headquarters two hours 
before. He galloped madly. A cool wind blew in his face. 
The Mecklenburg horse — decidedly a fine animal — ^joyously 
mounted the hill. Du Breuil felt it tightly gripping the bit, 
felt the solid contact of his boots on its flanks. Once more 
he saw himself riding side by side with Lacoste, and the two 
horses fraternizing. A little of the enthusiasm which had 
transported him then took possession of him. The noise of 
the cannonade increased in violence. He- shot between two 
woods. 

“ I shall get there quicker by making for Chatel,” he said 
to himself. 

The day died. Large reddish clouds rose on the left. 
Near Gros-Chene he passed the division of Grenadiers and 
Zouaves of the Guard. These crack battalions were waiting, 
motionless, their arms at rest. He skirted interminable files 
of silent men. Companies followed one after the other, 
their red and blue masses giving an impression of calm, 
composure, and force. The manly, sunburnt faces, with 
their stout moustaches, all resembled each other. Du Breuil 
carried away an impression of admirable troops trembling 
with expectation. 

He still galloped on, little by little intoxicated by his own 
movement, and the imperious desire to see and to know the 
increasing uproar of the struggle. The path wound through 
the wood. Frenzied Aides-de-camp passed, shouting unin- 
telligible phrases. But their faces spoke, and he spurred on 
his horse. The wood became bright. At the edge he could 
take in the vast plateau at a glance. The church-tower of 


THE DISASTER. 


205 


a village on his left was blazing. That was Amanvillers. 
Large gleams and thick smoke rose ahead of him at Saint- 
Privat. The violence of the cannonade was extreme. The 
musketry was crackling furiously. 

There was no doubt about it — the hour was decisive, the 
battle was at its height. Du Breuil felt his heart throb. 
What was to be done? Return whence he came, and warn 
. . . But a distant uproar murmured ahead. He thought he 
could hear sublime notes from drums and trumpets sounding 
to the charge. . . Come! it was news of victory which he 
would carry back. Forward! . . . He passed some batteries 
on a hillock, which were spitting forth hell fire. 

The plain was obscured by a blue smoke. One could only 
see red flashes and whistling, black flights of shells. Bullets 
rained down. He went back to the edge of the wood, and 
proceeded straight in the direction of the sound of the 
charge. “ They say that blowing the trumpets puts one out 
of breath ! ” In proportion as he approached, Du Breuil 
was astonished not to hear the mad cries of the assault, the 
rushing forward of battalions. When he reached the Briey 
main road he stopped, mute with astonishment. Twenty 
drummers and trumpeters were beating and blowing desper- 
ately there, while the sinister stream of routed soldiers swept 
the road. . . . 

“ Is it the Guard which is arriving ? ” cried to him the 
ofiicer who had ordered the men to sound the charge. 

Du Breuil made a sign in the negative. 

We have been thus for the past hour to make believe 
that reinforcements were coming. . . . Bazaine wishes, then, 
that we shall be killed here.” 

The Saint-Privat church and houses in flames cast their 
tragic brightness athwart the ruddy haze of night. The 
fracas of the shells and the intensity of the fusillade caused 
a continued rumbling. Bands of dismayed soldiers fled* 
along the road pele-mele, with the whole of the vehicles of 
the rear. Ah! this lugubrious stream of ambulances, wag- 
gons, canteen-carriages, and frightened peasants with carts 
full of mean furniture. . . . Du Breuil dashed against the 
current, and stopped the soldiers of the line, who were with- 
out rifles. 

“ What are you doing there ? ” he cried. 

And voices replied: “We are seeking our regiment.” 


206 


THE DISASTER. 


Others were marching without uttering a word. Some, 
who were walking alone, jeered. Upon nearing the village 
the number of fugitives increased. A regimental band 
passed. The pale-faced men were running, their instruments 
in their cases. One large fellow suddenly threw his instru- 
ment from him, looking at Du Breuil with an insolent air. 
Du Breuil was then seized with an inspiration. He felt 
the energy of his race boil in him; the red blood of his an- 
cestors made him raise himself in his stirrups and cry out. 
A mysterious force proceeded from his gesture and his 
order. The pale-faced musicians were conquered, and 
stopped upon hearing his voice. The instruments leapt from 
their cases, and, blown with all the force of the lungs of the 
men, a wild song — the “ Marseillaise ” — burst forth in the 
midst of the panic-stricken people, and moved every heart. 
In the thundering fracas of the evening, with its uproar of 
tocsins, the national anthem arose, increased in volume, was 
the very cry of France. Everybody, seized with a sudden 
intoxication, repeated the ardent strophes, and felt the in- 
spiration of past victories. The soul of a nation filled this 
crowd in rout, and, as in those epic days when the Father- 
land has been in danger, all these fugitives, galvanized, their 
eyes ablaze, remounted the hill, fused into a single being, 
which rushed forward to the fight with an irresistible im- . 
pulse. 

Du Breuil, intoxicated, advanced, was pushed forward 
by the reflux. An anonymous hero, he lived that magnificent 
hour, which was the culminating point of his life, in a state 
of unconsciousness. Strange chance which had led him 
there at that precise minute in order that he might accom- 
plish as he was passing that very simple act in which the 
whole energy of a race, the existence of its obscure ancestors 
and his own, were resumed! ... 

Upon arriving at the first houses in the village, a small 
red speck settled upon his arm. He looked at it in surprise. 
It was a ladybird, its shining back spotted with black — a 
small winged creature in the midst of the storm of death. 
The shells fell with an infernal noise, and pierced the walls 
with holes. Bullets whizzed by hundreds. He saw some sol- 
diers of the line fall back and flee. Drums were ‘beating 
an order to charge which was not ours. Raucous cheers 
could be heard: “Vorwaertz! Vorwaertz!” He turned to 


THE DISASTER. 


207 


the right and galloped off. In a garden, behind a wall, a line 
of foot soldiers were alternately kneeling and lying down, 
bringing their rifles to their shoulders and firing. The fire 
was regulated by a Captain. 

“Your turn, Judin.” 

The small soldier of the line took careful aim and pulled 
the trigger. 

“ Mouche ! ” he exclaimed, rising, “ I’ve no more car- 
tridges.” 

“ Your turn. Curly,” ordered the calm voice. 

Laughs arose, and the bald soldier, who was thus named, 
fired without hurry. 

“Vedel!” cried Du Breuil. . . . 

The Captain turned towards his cousin a brave face, upon 
which was stamped serious and calm determination. Du 
Breuil was struck by it. 

“ What are you doing there ? ” 

Vedel hurriedly explained that he had held his ground 
for seven hours; that the 6th corps, without ammunition, 
reinforcements, or orders, had at last been crushed, and was 
retreating. He pointed out the plain, and made a gesture, 
saying that the Prussian Royal Guard was sleeping there. 

Vicomte Judin, black, covered with dust, unrecognisable, 
listened with a smile. 

“ Fine sight. Major, but I like the Opera quite as well, 
don’t you know.” 

He drew a pipe and a tinder-box from his pocket, and 
was getting ready to strike a light. Suddenly a bullet sang 
through the air. Judin turned very pale, the tinder-box fell, 
blood spurted. His wrist was clean broken. Du Breuil was 
now carried away in a feverish gallop. The village blazed 
in the distance. There was the uproar of an assault. He 
was in the midst of a fusillade; foot-soldiers ran. Vedel? 
Ah yes! he was left down there behind the wall. . . . He 
had a vision of men who rise to their feet, group themselves 
around their Captain, and go slowly away. And behind the 
wall a dark-blue line, which advances with unfurled flags; 
bayonets shine, trumpets blow — other trumpets than ours. 
. . . And now train-carriages, waggons, and canteen-car- 
riages roll along in confusion. There? What is there? 
Foot-soldiers rush forward. ... A group of ofiicers on 
horseback are crying with hoarse voices: “Long live Can- 


208 


THE DISASTER. 


robert ! ” Superb, ahead of the group, is a Marshal of 
Erance, who, his body proudly straightened, leads the re- 
treat with an air of sadness and with sparkling eyes. 

Night. . . . There is the tramping of troops in flight — 
indescribable jostlings on dark roads. Sometimes Du Breuil 
was skirting half-grouped regiments without orders, not 
knowing if they were to advance, to bivouac, or to go back. 
Against a wood he recognised in the obscure light of the 
moon the Grenadiers, and then the Zouaves, of the Guard. 
Ah! these red and blue masses, drawn up in lines when he 
first passed them! . . . The irony of these motionless crack 
troops, which were only waiting for a sign, whilst three kilo- 
metres away the crushed 6th corps was giving way, and drag- 
ging with it the 4th! 

There was a deep road, the sound of horses on the march, 
the rolling along of cannon and caisson. . . . The smoke of 
battle, which little by little had dispersed, now seemed to 
float in the form of big clouds in the black sky, in which the 
moon shone splendidly. Du Breuil met two batteries on 
the march. 

“The bivouac of the Guard, Major?” asked a flute-like 
voice. 

Du Breuil looked the officer in the face. He recognised 
Captain de Serres, with his slender figure and his tight-fit- 
ting pelisse. Behind him Lieutenant Thomas was respect- 
fully smiling. 

“ A hundred yards away,” replied Du Breuil | “ Go 

straight before you.” 

Suddenly, like a flash of light, an idea struck him — 
D’Avol ! These were D’Avol’s batteries. The Captain’s face 
saddened. 

“ Killed ? ” asked Du Breuil, a lump in his throat. 

“ I don’t, think so,” said De Serres. 

• “What, then?” 

“Wounded — disappeared. A shell shattered his shoulder 
as he was taking orders to the 4th corps, after placing the 
batteries in position. His horse alone returned.” 

The Captain saluted. The cannon moved away. D’Avol 
now! D’Avol after Lacoste! . . . An infinite lassitude took 
possession of him. His sorrow, which was cutting when he 
had certain thoughts, was reduced to a state of dull suffering 
because of its keenness. Sometimes he obscurely thought: 


THE DISASTER. 


209 


“If all, however, were not lost! If Frossard and Leboeuf 
had been able to hold out 1 ” Mechanically he followed the 
road over which he had ridden a few hours before. Sud- 
denly, near Gros-Chene, he saw numerous troops massed 
against the edge of the wood. 

A group of officers were listening to an order which was 
being read by one of them in a loud voice, and in the light 
of a lantern which a Lieutenant was holding at arm’s length. 
Du Breuil dismounted and approached, while the Mecklen- 
burg horse, as a sign of joy, noisily pawed the ground, and 
then, firmly fixed on its four legs, violently shook itself with 
a jingling noise. A General turned his head, and inquired 
if Du Breuil brought other orders. Upon receiving his ex- 
planations, he said in a dry tone of voice, trembling with 
rage : 

“ Well, read that. Major.” 

Du Breuil stretched out his arm — hallo ! the ladybird was 
still there — and, taking the paper, he read the order, copied 
in a large sprawling handwriting, that of Francastel. An 
icy silence reigned. Du Breuil, mute, refolded the paper. 

“ That is all right, sir. We retreat,” said the General, 
addressing the Captain who had brought the order. “ Bally 
the regiments which you meet your way.” 

Was Du Breuil dreaming? The whole army was going 
to return with bent head under the cannon of the forts 1 . . . 
So many brave men had died in vain. . . . 

“ It was at headquarters that you were given that ? ” he 
stammered. 

“ Yes,” replied the Captain. “ Those are instructions dic- 
tated by Colonel Charlys after his reconnaissance in the 
afternoon.” 

Du Breuil pressed his hand to his forehead. 

“ And the Marshal — have you see him ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the other. “ When the 4th corps gave way 
after the 6th corps. General Ladmirault sent me to inform 
the Commander-in-Chief. Bazaine gave me the order which 
you have read, and, in the presence of my despair, he added : 
‘ Don’t distress yourself. Captain. You would have had to 
make this retrograde movement to-morrow morning. The 
only difference is, you are making it twelve hours sooner.’ ” 


PAET ly. 


CHAPTEE I. 

An officer of Bazaine’s private staff handed Du Breuil 
the letter which he was to take. The rubicund-cheeked Mar- 
shal, who was wearing a tight-fitting spencer, had just had 
breakfast. He was conversing with a civilian who had the 
appearance of a magistrate, his back to the chimneypiece. 
Another officer was consulting a map at a small table. The 
Marshal questioned a chief medical officer whom Du Breuil 
had not at first seen. 

“We have quite fifteen thousand wounded?” 

“ Certainly more than that, M. le Marechal.” . . . 

The Aide-de-camp saw Du Breuil to the door. As the 
Marshaks study was on the ground-fioor, he was in the open 
air immediately. He saw Kestaud, who was leaving the 
house in which General Jarras was lodging with part of the 
officers of the chief headquarters. Eestaud’s serious and 
taciturn look was interrogative. Du Breuil replied: 

“ I am going to negotiate an exchange of wounded and 
prisoners near Jussy.” 

Eestaud said : 

“ My business is with the outposts. I will accompany 
you.” 

They ordered their horses, first of all going to the apart- 
ment which they occupied at the house of Mme. Guimbail, 
for they were neighbours. Frisch busily occupied himself 
in helping his master to tie his new shoulder-knots; his 
Major must have a fine appearance when he called upon 
these drinkers of schnaps. All those who had been sent by 
the enemy to parley were high-class officers, magnificently 
mounted. A Captain of the King’s Hussars, who had come 
on the previous day to the Ban Saint-Martin, had made a 
210 


THE DISASTER. 


211 


sensation with his brilliant blue uniform, the gold bullion 
of his epaulets, and his kolback with its white aigrette. With 
perfect grace, and in very pure French without an accent, 
he had asked Decherac to transmit his card to a French 
officer of his acquaintance. 

From the open window could be seen the green expanse 
of the Ban Saint-Martin full of troops. Here, too, was the 
bivouac of the Lancers of the Guard, the sight of which was 
bitter to Du Breuil. His heart ached at the thought of 
Lacoste, and again when he thought of D’Avol wounded, 
disappeared. . . . He turned his eyes towards the flowered 
wall-paper of the small bedroom, the clock under a glass 
shade on the mantelpiece, and three lithographs in frames. 
A calendar, the leaves of which were daily torn off, showed 
the day — Tuesday, under a large 23. Four days already had 
the army been blocked under Metz ! 

“How is Titan?” asked Restaud. 

He was interested, like the whole staff, in Lacoste’s big 
dog which Du Breuil had taken in. Since the first night 
that the dog had howled at Death, it had refused to eat or 
to drink, and, reduced to skin and bone, was pining away. 
It did not even moan any longer, but remained stretched 
out, looking at visitors with enlarged eyes, more than human, 
full of an infinite sadness. Du Breuil made a gesture of dis- 
tress. Then Restaud, to change the subject, announced: 

“ There are the horses ! ” 

The escort, consisting of a trumpeter and a corporal of 
the Chasseurs on horseback, the bearer of a small white flag, 
was waiting in the already cold, rainy day. For some time 
the two officers rode on in silence. Military men, resigned 
by discipline as well as by habit, condemned to renounce 
themselves, speak little, except upon rare, critical occasions, 
of what deeply concerns them. But there are silences which 
speak. Du Breuil was the first to break silence. In the soli- 
tude of his soul he was stifled, oppressed by the number of 
these thousands, and by these thousands of men among whom 
there were perhaps not two in whom he could confide. . . . 
D’Avol ! Lacoste ! There was that aching at his heart. . . . 
At first he had not reflected; the rush of events and Death 
striking blows with a club around him had stunned, stupe- 
fied him. His friends ... he only now understood how 
much he had loved them, what a manly, frank, and sure affec- 


212 


THE DISASTER. 


tion he had had for them. Jacques must have fallen into 
the hands of the Prussians! What a lugubrious agony in 
the midst of conquerors, or what a sad re-establishment to 
health, a prisoner in a foreign town. Death rather than 
that! Certainly Jacques would prefer it. 

Restaud had already several times looked at Du Breuil, 
and then, owing to a sense of delicacy, turned away his eyes. 
Their feelings, owing to the fact that they had never been 
clearly expressed, observed a reserve which was paralyzed by 
something akin to trouble and uncertainty — the hesitations, 
the groping about of two noble souls who would like to love 
each other, but who did not dare or know how. However, 
Restaud guessed to what an extent his companion was un- 
happy. He himself was unhappy. 

Du Breuil smiled. 

“ Who would have told us that three weeks ago ? ” 

Restaud replied, sadness in his eyes, the colour of sand- 
stone, and upon his serious Breton face: 

“ I was thinking about it on Sunday evening when I saw 
the Saint-Quentin slopes covered with hundreds of fires, and 
heard on all sides the cacophony of military bands. I said to 
myself, ‘ So much noise for nothing ! ’ And I added, ‘ Since 
the opening of the campaign our warfare has resembled 
that.^ ” 

There was a silence, as if each one, however small ac- 
count he might be, obscurely, vaguely felt that he was some- 
what a party to the weaknesses and the incapacity which had 
been shown. Du Breuil replied: 

“ In the meantime we are blocked in.” 

“We shall get out.” 

“May Bazaine hear you! Look here, Restaud: it' is 
really inexplicable. And a man so brave! We saw him at 
Borny, and at Rezonville, when he drew his sword on the 
point of being captured in the charge of the Brunswick 
Hussars. . . . Frankly,” repeated Du Breuil, with sincere 
anguish, “why didn’t we break through to Rezonville? We 
were in a position to do so. Why didn’t the Marshal support 
Canrobert at Saint-Privat ? Why are we taken back to the 
rear? What is going to become of us, burdened with 
wounded, cornered in a place where provisions . . . you 
know the state of the resources which were furnished yes- 
terday — a fortnight’s wheat, a fortnight’s flour, and the re- 


THE DISASTER. 


213 


mainder in the same proportion? If that is true, what are 
we waiting for before taking possession of the corn, the 
grain, and the provender with which the neighbouring vil- 
lages are full? All the owners in the neighbourhood have 
come to tell us, and to press us to do so. What are we doing ? 
Nothing ! ” 

“We shall get out,” repeated Restaud, with a tender, ob- 
stinate conviction. “We are already reassured as regards 
ammunition, the lack of which was the reason for the re- 
treat on the evening of August 16th.” 

“ It was a mere pretext ! ” exclaimed Du Breuil. 

“ They have discovered four million cartridges in the un- 
emptied trucks at the station, and General Soleille’s report 
of yesterday, according to which all our batteries are re- 
stocked and our parks are complete, establishes the situa- 
tion. He also asked that the Marshal make known this good 
news to the army.” 

“ Salut, messieurs,” said a timid old man, taking off 
his cap. 

He was in his slippers, standing on the threshold of his 
door at the spot where the Moulins-les-Metz road slants off 
towards Chatel-Saint-Germain. Du Breuil recognised M. 
Poiret, at whose house he had slept on the night of the Borny 
fight. The old man insisted, in spite of their refusal, in their 
accepting a glass of new wine. He walked by the side of 
their horses. 

“ Is it true, sirs, that MacMahon is at Etain ? He is com- 
ing to deliver us, then ? ” 

The ofiicers got rid of him by a vague reply and an im- 
perceptible shrug of the shoulders. He stood on the road 
which they had taken, and which led to Sainte-Ruffine, 
watching them move away, his hand held over his eyes to 
screen them from the light. The horsemen sat erect in their 
saddles, sullen, wounded by this word of deliverance, which, 
for those who dare not admit it, summed up the secret hope 
that MacMahon would appear, and, holding out his hand to 
the Metz army, raise the blockade. 

“ It is absurd,” said Du Breuil. “ Supposing that Mac- 
Mahon’s troops are reorganized, where are they to-day? On 
August 19th the Marshal sent a telegram from Chalons.” 
He quoted it from memory : “ Hf you are obliged to very 
shortly beat a retreat, as I believe you will be, I do not know 


214 


THE DISASTER. 


how to come to your assistance, owing to the distance which 
I am from you, without uncovering Paris. If you judge 
otherwise, let me know.’ Bazaine’s reply compromised him 
but little : ‘ I shall very shortly follow the line of northern 
frontier towns to rejoin you. I will inform you of my march 
if I can still undertake it without compromising the army.’ ” 

He shook his head. For some days his doubts had only 
increased. Did Bazaine really think of rejoining MacMahon 
and the Emperor? Did he not prefer to remain free, to act 
as he liked ? His conduct of August 16th and 18th remained 
inexplicable. Some authorities, moreover, refused to admit 
the presence, the very existence, of MacMahon’s army. Can- 
robert had explained himself on that point, with his usual 
frankness, before the officers of his staff. 

“ Let us count on ourselves alone,” said Bestaud. 

“ In the meantime we are blockaded ! ” repeated Du 
Breuil. 

It was his fixed idea, and it had been shared by the town 
and the army for the past four days. 

He pointed with outstretched hand to the open sky, the 
fields, and the woods. In the rear was a regiment in camp; 
there, some batteries; ahead was a company of the Grand’- 
garde behind a fortified trench; beyond was a space, then 
a line of outposts, and further away still double sentinels. 

“ Isn’t it curious to think that we are surrounded by an 
invisible force, by a network of death, the meshes of which 
we can only break by tearing ourselves and letting fresh 
blood? Do you know the number of our last losses? — 12,273 
men. Our wounded? More than 15,000, the Marshal was 
saying just now.” 

He watched a bird, an eagle or a sparrow hawk, which 
was flying at a great altitude towards the south-west. 

“ He is free,” he said. 

Bestaud bowed his head. 

Du Breuil continued : 

“ Isn’t it strange to think that a few days ago we were 
in communication with the whole of France? The telegraph- 
wire was cut at Haney on August 12th, at Briey on the 18th, 
and at Thionville on the 19th. On the last date I received a 
letter from my father. ''When shall we receive fresh mails? 
God only knows ! ” 

He became excited, struck by this idea — the army was 


THE DISASTER. 


215 


similar to a monster spider in the middle of its web, and by 
a vast network of wires connected with the country ; but now 
all the wires had been cut, and the army was isolated. The 
fate of battles, the destiny of so many thousands of men, was 
held in the hollow of the hand of an emissary, of a ranger, 
of a police agent, rare and courageous men who, at the peril 
of their lives, crossed the enemy’s lines, and who, arrested, 
searched, ill-treated, slid into streams of water, alongside 
hedges and ditches, carrying the precious little despatch 
rolled in the form of a cigarette or inside an indiarubber 
ball — the flimsy piece of paper upon which depended the 
march of armies and the salvation of France. Du Breuil 
and Restaud spoke with emotion of rangers, with their frank 
faces, their sunburnt hands, and their dusty feet. They re- 
peated the names of these obscure heroes. One of them, on 
August 20th, had brought a despatch from General-Com- 
missary Wolf; another, the ranger Braidy, as soon as he 
had arrived, brought his message sewn in the vamp of his 
boot. The police agent Flahault, who came from Thionville 
on August 20th, set off the next day with despatches for 
Colonel Turnier, the commander of the town. 

Restaud reined up on a level with the two sentinels, who, 
sheltered behind a hedge, were keeping a look-out on the 
zone of land which lay before them. They were two soldiers 
of the line with deep-set eyes, drawn features, and they 
looked at the officers with a kind of cunning astonishment. 

“ Good luck ! ” exclaimed Restaud. 

At the same moment bullets whistled through the air. 

• “ Don’t remain there,” said Du Breuil. 

And he took his sword in hand. Cydalise crossed the 
thicket. Preceded by the escort, he advanced in the midst 
of rifle-shots. The white flag, well in view, fluttered in the 
air. The trumpeter, who was at the side of the man who 
carried the flag, turned round. Dark helmets could be seen. 

“ Halt ! ” cried Du Breuil. “ Trumpeter, blow ! ” 

The three strident bugle-notes rang out, with an interval 
between each. At the last note only did the bullets cease 
singing through the air. A horseman arose in view on the 
edge of the intrenchments. Du Breuil slowly replaced his 
sword in his scabbard. Raucous voices and wild gestures 
requested him to turn round. He obeyed the order, but found 
the custom a hard one. There was the sound of a galloping 
15 


216 


THE DISASTER. 


horse, and a ceremonious Captain of hussars, tall and stiff, 
came up and saluted him. Upon stating that he had a com- 
munication for General von Goeben, the officer replied in 
Urench: 

“ Certainly ; will you follow me.” 

Du Breuil had on the tip of his tongue a dry reproach: 
“ y our soldiers fire upon those sent to parley.” 

He kept silent through pride, resembled Cydalise, who 
commenced to step high as for a defile at a review. The 
officer looked at her flatteringly. 

“You have a fine animal there, sir!” 

Du Breuil was displeased that this man should praise 
Cydalise. He replied, after glancing at the other’s mount: 

“ It is, as a matter of fact, a fine animal.” 

Then only did he feel a little pleasure of superiority. 

Another hussar — a bearded non-commissioned officer — 
arrived. Du Breuil had to dismount. In order to prevent a 
German from touching Cydalise, he quickly threw the bridle 
to his trumpeter, a thin lascar pitted with small-pox. They 
now bandaged his eyes in silence. Held by the arm like a 
blind man, he walked as though in a nightmare. The officer 
courteously warned him of obstacles. Du Breuil heard 
around him the noise of earthworks in course of construc- 
tion, the striking of pickaxes on stone, the shovels being 
forced into the ground, the throwing up of the sliding earth, 
and further away the heavy work of paving with paving-beetles. 
Foreign voices struck upon his ear; they murmured: “ Fran- 
gose! Frangose!” Soldier-like smells, acrid and savage, 
offended his nose. Suddenly they stopped. A voice of com- 
mand asked him for the letter which he brought. He heard 
a correct “ Danke ihnen ! ” Conducted into a deep road, 
the firmer earth of which resisted under his feet, his bandage 
fell off. It was a relief to him to see the sky, the leaves, 
and the earth again. His guide, the Captain, was politely 
smiling at him. Du Breuil also smiled feebly. Recently he 
had thought of those who are going to be shot ; now he again 
saw himself a child occupied in playing blindman’s buff. 
The officer introduced himself as Count Schels-Trauben. 
Du Breuil in turn gave his name. The restrained conversa- 
tion, interrupted by silences, finished by consisting of 
weighed words. The Captain accompanied him to Jussy, 
to the slope of the hills which descend towards Metz. There 


THE DISASTER. 


217 


he waited for three hours for General von Goeben’s reply. He 
could only see around him abandoned houses. A pillaged 
habitation, called the chateau, showed its doors burst in, and 
pieces of furniture and empty bottles covered the lawns of 
the park. He turned away his eyes. Count Schels-Trauben 
seemed to see nothing ; he had straightened up his tall figure, 
and was drawing an emblazoned case from his pocket. 

“ Do you smoke ? 

Upon Du Breuil’s refusal he took a cigar and lighted it. 

The little case which he used was French: one could see 
on its coloured pasteboard side a cuirassier paying court to 
a fellow-countrywoman. Doubtless the cigar was French. 
Seeing the ofi3.cer mechanically draw towards him a branch 
of a mirabelle plum-tree, Du Breuil felt a pain in his heart. 
Was the Count Schels-Trauben going to do him the honours 
with this fruit? He saw a vision of pillaged farms, prov- 
ender spoilt, and provisions destroyed. What was the good 
of buying when they could take ? It was war ! . .. . Ah ! 
doubtless he would have contemplated these things with more 
indifference if victorious in Germany . . . but here, on 
F rench land, in his own country ! It was too much ! . . . A 
noise of fine falling rain made him turn his head. Count 
Schels-Trauben had let go the branch, and the ripe mirabelles 
were crushed on the ground by their fall. He discreetly 
moved away. 

Du Breuil, alone, breathed again. He was suffering. The 
extensive landscape filled his eyes. On his right stretched 
out the beautiful valley of the Moselle, the gray day bathing 
its carpet of stubble, its vine-covered slopes, and its vine- 
yards, in a humid atmosphere. The river divided the town 
by its sparkling waters; the tower of tlie cathedral, domi- 
nating the roofs, raised on high the tricolour fiag. Facing 
him, on the opposite side of the mountain, stretched out the 
Scy slopes, where, more than once in the days of his youth, 
he had been with D’Avol to drink the pretty pink wine at 
farmers’ houses. The Saint-Quentin fort crowned the sum- 
mit with its heavy mass, and every now and then thundered 
forth in a deep voice. An old woman, dressed in a petticoat 
and sabots, appeared, and behind her a white-haired man 
bent double. Others came — a young crippled boy, a woman 
with red eyes, as though she had been weeping blood, old 
men leaning upon crutches, and a grandmother with dod- 


218 


THE DISASTER. 


dering head. They approached him, saluted, and complained 
in a low voice, with many disquieted looks. The cripple 
showed his arm, black and swollen, in consequence of a blow 
from the butt-end of a rifle. An old man spoke of vines 
torn down, and the fruit still green. One could hear the 
great subdued noise of the enemy working at the earth- 
works. The bayonets of the sentinels shone. Every time 
that the Saint-Quentin thundered, all these poor people 
looked towards the fort, an obscure, melancholy hope pass- 
ing over their faces. He divided what money he had between 
them. Then, as the Prussian officer was returning, they 
moved away. 

Mollifled and eased in his mind, he suffered him without 
hatred. Both avoided looking at each other. They spoke of 
one thing and another, but that which they did not say re- 
mained between them, and kept them at a distance. 

They were bringing General von Goeben’s reply, so his 
torture was drawing to a close. Five minutes afterwards he 
was descending at a gallop, followed by his flag-bearer and 
trumpeter, the path which led to Sainte-Puffine. 

It was with a feeling of enthusiasm that he again entered 
the enclosed camp and again took up his soldier’s post. With 
what joy he had again seen the ruddy face of the flag-bearer, 
the thin, pock-marked face of the trumpeter. Ah, to return 
once more to French territory, to see once more French sol- 
diers of the line, and no more to meet the enemy unless with 
revolver and sword in hand! The enemy was not the heavy 
barbarian one ran up against in the thick of the melee, in the 
midst of the feverish rush and the smoke; it was Baron 
Hacks or this stiff, correct, courteous hussar . . . this Prus- 
sian had behaved most decorously! Parbleu! it was exactly 
that which irritated him. 

Upon re-entering the Ban Saint-Martin, he found that 
the Marshal’s officers wore an air of mystery. Colonel Char- 
lys was leaving Bazaine’s study, his lips compressed, and a 
preoccupied look in his eye. The Marshal took the letter 
which Du Breuil handed to him, read it, and, without asking 
for further information, threw it on the table, saying indif- 
ferently : 

“ That is all right, Major.” 

He went to the offices, and noticed there a tall ranger, 
who wore his beard trimmed en collier — the beard of the 


TEE DISASTER. 


219 


Anabaptists. The man was answering Laune’s questions. 
Charlys entered, made a sign, and the ranger followed him. 
Laune also went out, and the two Colonels conversed with 
the man outside for some time. Du Breuil made inquiries. 
Decherac said to him: 

“ It is believed that he is the bearer of a despatch from 
MacMahon. The Marshal is coming to our assistance by 
way of the north.” 

“ Let us bet, then,” said Floppe, “ that we shall leave by 
the south. A good method, so as not to meet.” 

Laune re-entered, but would say nothing. Outside, the 
rumour spread about that a despatch had been brought by 
an emissary of MacMahon. They were talking about it in 
the town, Du Breuil learnt on the following day, and already 
with exaggeration. . . . MacMahon had arrived at Mont- 
medy with seventy batteries of twelve-pounders, drawn by 
twenty-two thousand Paris omnibus horses! 

Thanks to the exchange of prisoners and information ob- 
tained by Charlys, they could again be described as almost 
equal in forces to the enemy. It was known that on August 
18th the King of Prussia had himself been at the head of 
the German army. To-day two hundred thousand men 
blockaded us. Six corps, belonging to the first and second 
armies commanded by Frederick Charles, closed the circle; 
two other corps were reported near Boncourt and on the 
Briey road. The sortie would be hot ! What direction would 
they take? Opinions were divided on the question. 

“ Why not make for the east,” said one, “ and thus cut 
off the communications with Germany, taking the Prussians 
in a trap between the Vosges and the Meuse?” 

Decherac proposed: 

“ By advancing to the south, supported on the flanks by 
the Moselle and the Seille, we should cut the Bed Prince’s 
lines of operation, and as soon as we had reached Frouard 
we should threaten those of the Prince Boyal.” 

“Well,” said Francastel, “I should drive the enemy from 
the Saint-Privat positions, re-open the Briey road, and reach 
the Meuse as quickly as possible.” 

“ Yes, Pichrocole I ” murmured Floppe, who had read 
Babelais. 

Massoli took no further interest in the question. 

“ What I don’t understand,” he said in his loud voice, “ is 


220 


THE DISASTEK. 


that the Marshal has not yet distributed the rewards, nor 
made the mentions on the order of the army. The bravery 
of our troops in these three fights merited something better 
than a bombastic general order.” 

The rosette hypnotized the stout man. It seemed to him 
that he ought to profit by the heroism of others. Francastel 
said : 

“ Upon my faith, a piece of red ribbon would suit more 
than one.” 

He would have liked to have been this one. Looks con- 
verged towards Du Breuil. His brilliant action on the even- 
ing of the 18th — the “ Marseillaise ” stopping the current of 
fugitives — was known. Laune and Charlys had warmly con- 
gratulated him upon it. 

The necessity of making a sortie, of stretching out a hand 
to MacMahon, and the impossibility of further inaction 
under the walls of Metz, were becoming apparent to the whole 
army. After the glorious series of recent fights, each one, 
still quivering with excitement, only asked to conquer, every 
soul stretched towards the hope of a decisive battle. 

Bazaine, apparently faithful to his plan of the 19th, 
transmitted by despatch to the Emperor : “ I still count 
upon taking a north-easterly direction, and throwing myself 
by way of Montmedy on to the main road from Sainte- 
Menehould to Chalons, if it is not too strongly occupied. In 
the contrary case, I shall march by way of Sedan, and even 
by Mezieres, to reach Chalons.” He was faithful, it ap- 
peared, to his despatch of the 23rd: . . There only re- 

mains on horseback on the two banks of the Moselle the 
armies of Prince Frederick Charles and General Steinmetz. 
... If the above news is confirmed, I shall be able to under- 
take the march which I have previously indicated by the 
northern fortresses, so as to compromise nothing. . . .” Ba- 
zaine had at first thought of taking the Thionville main 
road. 

After crossing the Orne at its confluence, they would 
make their way by forced marches along the Longwy and 
Longuyon roads. But the danger of advancing in a very 
narrow valley under a pelting fire from the heights soon 
brought about a change of plan. The sortie would be made 
by Sainte-Barbe. There there was plenty of space, deploy- 
ment was easy, numerous roads led towards the north. The 


THE DISASTER. 


221 


arrangements which were made foreshadowed the departure. 
These were: an order to reduce the baggage, in case they 
had to march; an order to General Coffinieres to throw two 
bridges over the arm of the Moselle forming the lie Cham- 
biere; joining of the reserve cavalry to General Desvaux’s 
division; reorganization of the artillery of the 6th corps. 

These measures greatly excited the minds of men; recol- 
lections of Borny and Rezonville revived confidence. Not- 
withstanding frequent panics, the disorder, the relaxation of 
discipline, the instincts of marauding — notwithstanding all 
the elements of dissolution which this army, up to the pres- 
ent badly commanded, badly cared for, badly fed, might drag 
after it, Bazaine’s soldiers were possessed of an invincible 
force. Magnificent regiments, old soldiers of the Italian 
and Crimean campaigns, of the Imperial Guard, formed 
unbreakable blocks in this immense, moving agglomeration 
of men. A single cry — “ March ! ” — rose to every lip. A 
chief to lead them — that was what everybody, from the 
commander of a corps to the most humble foot soldier, de- 
manded. Du Breuil, at the present time, knew these innu- 
merable faces, sometimes wearing an expression of sad lassi- 
tude, sometimes that of deep rage — these eyes which did not 
understand, these mouths which spat forth invective, these 
arms which fell with stupor. There was not a gesture which 
did not express incomprehension at so many forces sacrificed 
and lost. An ardent life now reappeared upon faces; eyes 
were ablaze at the thought of fighting at last, no longer on 
a guarded position, but drummers drumming to the charge 
— a dash forward with the French fury of old! Du Breuil 
had received a striking impression of it as he passed near 
the Lancers of the Guard, who were cantoned under his 
windows. 

Three were talking among themselves. 

“ It’s going to be warm work ! ” one was saying. 

“ Not too soon,” murmured the other. 

And the third, Saint-Paul, the old Saint-Cloud quarter- 
master who had been a witness of the death of Lacoste, was 
sharpening his sabre in savage silence, a strange smile under 
his enormous moustache. He raised his eyes towards Du 
Breuil. A bond of silence connected them, with a feeling of 
sympathy on the part of Du Breuil and embarrassment in 
the case of both of them. Recollecting the slight humilia- 


222 


THE DISASTER. 


tion which he had inflicted upon him at Saint-Cloud — 
“ Come now, quartermaster, wake up ! ” — Du Breuil thought 
he could always read a reproach in the veteran’s unchange- 
able respect. However, the interest which they had for 
Musette, Lacoste’s fine animal, drew them together. Old 
Saint-Paul jealously watched over her since she had entered 
the rank. This time again Du Breuil stopped and obtained 
news of the mare. He added: 

“ She will soon walk.” 

The veteran, resting on his sabre, said in a jovial voice, 
a distant look in his eyes: 

“ F atigue is good ; it’s rest which is worth nothing.” 

They were conversing in the ofiices about the visit which 
Generals Soleille and Coffinieres were paying the Marshal at 
that moment. The former was the commander of the artil- 
lery of the army; the latter was the commander of the En- 
gineers and Governor of Metz, so that they lent to events a 
considerable importance. He found out nothing of their 
conversation. In the evening Decherac related to Du Breuil 
that : 

“ Disagreement is now spreading to Charlys and J arras. 
I had just taken some documents to the General’s room when 
Charlys entered. ‘ General,’ he said, ‘ here are the move- 
ment orders which the Marshal ordered me to make out yes- 
terday. Will you kindly take note of them.’ The General 
replied : ‘ Get the Marshal to sign them.’ And when Charlys 
was insisting, he said: ^You made them out; get them 
signed.’ ” 

The troops were to raise the camp on the following day,* 
August 26th, at daybreak. The 2nd, 4th, and 6th corps and 
the Guard, which were massed on the left bank since August 
19th, would cross the Moselle by way of the town and the 
two bridges of the lie Chambiere. The 3rd corps, which 
since August 22nd had passed on to the right bank, would 
establish itself behind Hoisseville. The Marshal meant to 
give his instructions on the field. It had rained the whole 
of the day. Du Breuil found the night very long in that 
small house of the Ban Saint-Martin, where he had lived for 
the past week. He did not sleep, tormented by the deaths 
of those whom he had loved so much — Lacoste and D’Avol; 
those whom he had known — Vacossart, Kelm, and others. 

The Bersheims? Du Breuil had neither had the time 


THE DISASTER. 


223 


nor the courage to visit them. What was the good of going 
to receive their compassion? . . . He was thinking of Anine. 
Compassion? Was that the sentiment she would feel? He 
felt his soldier’s pride lessened. In the morning Frisch in- 
formed him that Titan was dead. He went to see the animal, 
and found that it was stiff. Mme. Guimbail, the landlady, 
a dry young woman dressed in black, whom one never met 
on the staircase or in the passages, was there. She blushed 
at being surprised in her nightcap, and disappeared. Frisch 
stroked Titan’s head. 

“ He had a bigger heart than a man,” he said. 

The sky was cloudy, the dampness penetrating. Showers 
fell between the intervals of sunshine. Since dawn troops 
were passing over the Moselle, an interminable avalanche 
of regiments over the trembling wooden bridges. They 
marched with a monotonous rumbling, a confused uproar, 
enthusiasm, resignation, and hope stamped upon their faces. 
Behind them rose an unsavoury and powerful smell. . . . 
Aides-de-camp and estafettes brought in news. The 2nd 
corps had set off at three o’clock in the morning by the Pont 
des Morts, and the town. Ho mishap had occurred on that 
side. But there had been stoppages at the bridges up and 
down stream, which had been thrown over the two arms of 
the lie Chambiere. The down-stream bridge, built with old 
trestles in order to economize the new materiel of the army, 
could bear neither cavalry nor artillery. Cannon, caissons, 
ammunition waggons, and horses of the 6th corps, were 
forced to go considerably out of their way to cross the other 
bridge, which was reserved for the 4th corps. Although all 
the baggage had been left at Chambiere, the crowding of the 
troops, the length of the acclivity in the village of Saint- 
Julien were enormous. They only advanced with extreme 
slowness, and, as upon every occasion, behindhand. 

The agitation of the chief headquarters, around the Mar- 
shal’s house, was feverish, agitated, and sullen. The horses 
bridled, they had waited since nine o’clock for the order to 
set off. What ill-omened sadness hovered over the groups 
they knew not. They spoke to each other in low voices. 
Comments were made upon the attitude of Soleille and Cof- 
finieres. Although their conversation with the Marshal on 
the previous day had not transpired, they thought they knew 
the sense of it. They had no doubt that they had used all 


224 


THE DISASTER. 


their efforts to induce Bazaine to remain under Metz, Soleille 
always timorous, and Coffinieres preoccupied about the fate 
of the town. This very morning, they were assured, they 
had presented to him an explanatory note, in which they 
reproduced their arguments, throwing the whole responsi- 
bility in advance on the shoulders of the Commander-in- 
Chief. What was more, Coffinieres presented himself at the 
Marshal’s house, and again insisted. His reasons were the 
necessity for keeping Metz as a base of operations, the ad- 
vantage of immobilizing the whole of the enemy’s army; 
MacMahon would have time to reconstitute himself, Paris 
to organize her defence. His great fear was that Metz, with 
her insufficiently armed forts, her garrison of nineteen thou- 
sand men and four thousand National Guards, would not 
hold out a fortnight. . . . General Soleille was no less anx- 
ious. In spite of the reassuring note of August 22nd, were 
the supplies sufficient for several battles? There was indeed 
a convoy of provisions at Thionville, but they had not yet 
arrived at that place. 

“ It’s too bad, all the same ! ” murmured Floppe. “ The 
Marshal doesn’t now seem so disposed to leave. If he listens 
to them now ! ” 

Du Breuil was sad, as though a misfortune was going to 
happen to him. He no longer, however, wore Mme. de Gui- 
onic’s opal on his finger. Bah! it was only the consequence 
of a bad night. He thought of his landlady; the widow had 
timidly asked him, when the time came for saying good- 
bye, to accept some provisions for the journey. These people 
of Lorraine had good hearts. He looked at his watch. Why 
did they not leave? . . . Charlys was white. One more who 
had slept badly. . . . 

A shower was falling. What mud already ! It was a sad 
thing for the troops, under arms since three o’clock in the 
morning, large droves on the march packed together down 
there on the Saint- Julien slope. How they knocked them up, 
how little they thought of their needs and of their tiredness ? 
Really, ought not the chief of the general staff to have seen 
to the employment of the roads which lead to the plateau? 
Why did he not make use of the officers of the staff? There 
was another squall. Half -past eleven ! In the saddle at last ! 
They set off. 

“You see we shall do nothing to-day,” said Massoli. 


THE DISASTER. 


225 


All this slowness gives the enemy time to place themselves 
in defence.” 

A few mounted Chasseurs only as the escort; the whole 
of the staff, more than fifty officers, were following the Mar- 
shal. 

^^ear the Thionville railway-station they met General 
Bourbaki. The Marshal informed him that he had to be at 
the Saint- Julien headquarters, upon his arrival, with the 
commanders of the army corps. Du Breuil shook hands with 
Major Carrouge, one of Bourbaki’s officers. Ten minutes 
afterwards. Major d’Homolle, of Bazaine’s private staff, went 
to order the commander of the Guard to suspend the move- 
ment and await fresh orders. 

“ What was I telling you ? ” exclaimed Massoli. 

He bent his head. 

As they were crossing the Moselle torrents of water 
poured upon the cortege. Certain of them buried their necks 
in their macferlanes ; others pulled down their pointed hoods 
still further over their heads. The storm brought with it 
black clouds; the water penetrated the coats, entered the 
boots; the horses slipped, and with their hoofs made the 
pools of water splash around. 

“ Poor devils ! ” said Bestaud. 

He was thinking of the §oldiers since the reveille; the 
regiments besmeared, the cannon stuck in the mire, and the 
horses also, which made it all the harder to get along. 

Massoli appeared astonished. 

“ This frog- juice is for everybody.” 

We have no need to be pitied,” protested Bestaud. 

“ I beg your pardon. I have not had my breakfast.” 

Hor I either,” said Bestaud very dryly. 

Massoli, who was annoyed, reined in his horse, and 
placed himself at the side of Floppe. They espoused their 
ill-will. Floppe could make fun at his ease of the poseurs — 
Bestaud, Du Breuil, and Laune. 

Outside the town the country presented a picture of 
nothing but devastation — villas razed to the ground, trees 
cut down, fields cut up, orchards sacked. Placing it in a 
state of defence, the pillage of convoys and soldiers had 
made a desert of this sweet country. The land, broken up 
by vehicles, upraised, hollowed out by shells, revealed its 
entrails. A terrible stench arose. There were dead bodies. 


226 


THE DISASTER. 


which had heen badly buried. Here and there one heard 
rifle-shots, the booming of cannon. The rain redoubled in 
violence, the thunder rumbled, the wind blew a hurricane. 

“ Never shall we be able to flght in such weather,” said 
Francastel. 

They reached the Chateau de Grimont, which was guard- 
ed by the 60 th Regiment of the line. They dismounted, and 
awaited the commanders of the army corps whom Bazaine 
had apprised. 

“ Regular scenery for a melodrama, isn’t it ? ” said Laune 
to Charlys, pointing out the fortified house, the shutters 
hanging down, the windows stopped up with sacks of earth, 
the garden walls provided with loopholes, and the wood, 
which stretched ahead, cut down, all the trees lying on the 
ground. 

A singular smile came on Charlys’s face. 

“ May you not be a prophet without knowing it ! ” He 
added ironically : “ It rains too hard to attempt anything. 
The Marshal will quickly convince these gentlemen of it. 
Not melodrama, but farce, will be played.” 

The commanders of the corps appeared one after the 
other, followed by their staffs. They provoked various feel- 
ings — sympathy in the case of Canrobert, esteem in the case 
of Ladmirault. Leboeuf and Frossard atoned for their mis- 
chief by the fact that they had been unfortunate. There was 
a silence when Coffinieres, a giant with Gaulish moustache, 
passed by. They also feared the importance of General 
Soleille. Du Breuil shook hands with Laisne, who was ac- 
accompanying Frossard, and with Blache, who, behind Le- 
bcEuf, was shaking himself, grumbling the while. He saw 
with pleasure Comte de Cussac. A small man with a curled 
beard came up to him all smiles, an Israelitish grace in his 
mischievous eyes; it was Major Gex, of Canrobert’s staff. 
Other officers, attached to Soleille and Coffiniere% and Ba- 
zaine’s two nephews, were there. A chaplain, the Abbe 
Trudaine, approached Du Breuil. 

^‘Well, Major, this is less warm than at Bruville. After 
fire, water.” 

He alwaya had tobacco in his pockets, but in offering 
some of it, he saw in despair that it was wet. 

“ Vill you haf some try? ” said a voice. 

Du Breuil was astonished to see Gugl, his shoulders hud- 


THE DISASTER. 


227 


died under an old green waterproof. The Jew, raising an 
oil-cloth, brought to view the large box with a glass top 
which he carried at his waist. It contained all kinds of 
things — tobacco, matches, flasks of rum, and nougat. Gugl, 
in the presence of Du Breuil’s surprise, mumbled : 

“ It is very hart to earn one’s liflihoot.” 

He smiled a humble and cunning smile, passed off a bad 
piece of money on to Trudaine with his change, and, hud- 
dling his shoulders still closer together, slipped into the 
midst of other troops with a begging eye. 

“ The counsel has commenced,” - Decherac announced. 

Silence reigned. 

“ Do you know,” he added, lowering his voice, “ what the 
Marshal let slip in the presence of Jarras when coming here? 
^ What will they say to me ? ’ Strange isn’t it ? ” 

“ You’ll laugh at me,” Restaud confided to Du Breuil, 
but I’m feeling wretched. Just look around us.” 

Du Breuil saw Laune impatient. Charlys, a head taller 
than everybody else, was gazing fixedly into the distance. 
Colonel Jacquemere was looking desolated, but perhaps only 
on account of his swollen cheek. The others, in a group 
with their backs to the storm, were morose and silent. The 
squall was cutting. Claps of thunder echoed in the dis- 
tance. Groups wandered about in the low rooms, camped 
in the kitchens and under sheds. They no longer spoke 
in an ordinary tone, but whispered. The longer the con- 
ference* up there continued, the more the disquietude in- 
creased. The minutes passed by and seemed like hours. 
And down there, on the roads and in the fields, receiving 
the pelting rain with bowed backs, the motionless regi- 
ments were waiting with mournful countenances and hollow 
stomachs. 

“ There’s Bourbaki ! ” said Floppe. 

The commander of the Guard, covered with mud, superb, 
full of enthusiasm, arrived, and, throwing from him his 
horse’s bridle, rushed away. 

“ Doesn’t look very comfortable ! ” exclaimed De Cussac. 

Well ! ” explained Major Carrouge, who dismounted, 
very excited, we were delayed by the crowded bridges. 
Then we looked in vain at Saint-Julien for Bazaine. ... Is 
there bad news from MacMahon ? Why don’t we march ? ” 

“ Because it is raining ! ” said Blache brutally. 


228 


THE DISASTER. 


They nudged him with their elbows. One of Bazaine’s 
nephews was passing at his side. 

“ I don’t care a damn! ” growled the Wild Boar. 

He looked at the Abbe Trudaine, who had reached his 
little cart and was whipping his horse. 

“ That honest priest,” he said, “ would be better at home.” 

Major Gex was seized with a fit of sneezing. People 
coughed and yawned ferociously. Floppe, whose cigarette 
had gone out, asked for some matches. 

“Buy some from the Jew,” said Du Breuil. 

They looked for Gugl. He had disappeared. Comte de 
Cussac bet : 

“ Fifty louis that we do not break through.” 

Sly looks were given. A vibrating voice cried out; it 
was Bourbaki calling for his Aide-de-camp, Major-Leperche. 

“ Go inform General d’ Auvergne to order the whole of 
the Guard and the general reserve of artillery to imme- 
diately resume their morning camps.” 

“ The farce is played,” said Charlys to Laune. 

Cussac chuckled : 

“ I should have robbed you of your fifty louis, gentlemen. 
I knew the Marshal would return to the Ban Saint-Martin 
this evening. He left his Guard there, and his baggage is 
not yet packed.” 

Bourbaki left. The conference still continued. The 
consternation was general. Restaud was looking at Cussac 
with eyes expressive of irritated suffering. Laisne was 
struck by his physiognomy, and pulled out his long mous- 
tache with an air of perplexity. 

“ All this is very sad, sir.” 

More minutes passed, or were they hours ? The Marshals 
reappeared — Canrobert, his eyes animated ; Leboeuf and 
Ladmirault, hooded and sorrowful. The staffs dispersed. 
There was the pawing of horses, brief adieus, and from 
mouth to mouth passed the dreaded news : “ No sortie will 
be made . . . the bad weather . . . the troops return. . . .” 
The 2nd corps was remaining on the right bank, the 4th and 
the 6th corps were recrossing the Moselle, and establishing 
themselves on the left bank. 

Retreat! the eternal retreat! 

“ It is not raining so much,” said Du Breuil. 

The escort, with mud to the tops of their boots, slowly. 


THE DISASTER. 


229 


funereally, gradually proceeded on horseback to headquar- 
ters. “We have no need of pity,” Restaud had said. But 
the troops, Du Breuil was thinking — the troops soaked to the 
skin, a slow and interminable mass of men with empty 
stomachs, who proceeded in the night, step by step, halt after 
halt, to regain their bivouacs transformed into lakes! . . . 
The rain ! he thought with rage — to make the rain an excuse 
for not fighting! Was it not also raining for the Prussians? 

. . . Laune was ahead listening to Jarras with bowed head. 
He returned, and said to Charlys : 

“ It is what I feared. Coffinieres insisted upon us not 
leaving Metz. General Soleille pleaded the insufficiency of 
ammunition. We only have sufficient left for one battle.” 

“ Then, we remain ? ” exclaimed Charlys. “ And the 
others, they said nothing ? They did not protest ? ” 

“ They came round to Bazaine’s opinion.” 

“ But did he speak of MacMahon ? ” 

“ No ; not a word.” 

Charlys trembled. 

“ What is the matter ? ” asked Laune. 

“Nothing.” Then he said, very low: “If you knew!” 

It was a gloomy re-entrance across the town. The in- 
habitants were at the doors, wearing an astonished, sad, sus- 
picious air. The troops which they overtook were mute and 
harassed, and cast at the silent group of the staff looks ex- 
pressive of blame and irony. There was nobody to whom 
the prospect of remaining under Metz, blockaded, useless, 
with the running out of the provisions and the provender in 
view, the slow slipping into the quicksands of the enfeebled 
army, did not appear unacceptable. . . . 

“ It is fine ! ” said Du Breuil in astonishment. 

A ray of sunshine slipped between the clouds. The blue 
patch of clear sky enlarged, the weather became moderately 
cool, radiant, the thousand pools of water shone. Each drop 
of water sparkled; one could see the wet bayonets shine, the 
embroidery and the gold on the uniforms light up. But it 
was only an ironical smile of the sky, and when the escort 
had re-entered the Ban Saint-Martin the rain recommenced, 
heavy, violent, inexorable. 


230 


THE DISASTER. 


CHAPTEK II. 

On the following day rain was still falling. Du Breuil 
watched it as it fell, standing at the window of his little bed- 
room, which he had found just as he had left it, in the house 
of Mme. Guimbail. Nothing was changed in the aspect of 
the muddy, cut-up Ban Saint-Martin. Only the Lancers of 
the Guard no longer bivouacked there. The calendar on the 
wall showed that the day was Sunday, August 28 th. It was 
just a month since the Emperor entered Metz with his son, his 
household, his equipages, the glorious cortege of victories of 
the reign — all the illusions of this fatal war. 

There came a knock at the door.. Some orderly, was it? 

“Come in!” 

A corpulent, smiling, florid gentleman appeared, and 
announced his name: 

“ Dumaine.” 

He it was who had had the pleasure of announcing to the 
Major the Sarrebriick success. He gave a sigh. They had 
dined together one month before at the house of those ex- 
cellent Bersheims, and had eaten that evening an admirable 
trufiled turkey. He gave another sigh. Ah! they would 
not eat such another one to-day. . . . Everything was get- 
ting dear; potatoes were priceless, and salt would soon be 
lacking. What was going to become of them? . . . He 
stated the object of his visit: 

“ It’s Bersheim who sent me to capture you. Are you at 
liberty. Major? Come and have luncheon with us. My 
phaeton is below.” 

Always affectionate, always kind, were the Bersheims. 
It happened that Du Breuil had a few hours’ leisure. M. 
Dumaine’s old horse set off at a crooked trot. 

“Well,” said the stout man with satisfaction, “they shot 
him this morning.” 

“ Who is that ? ” 

“ That rascal, the spy Schull, who was sentenced to death 
on Sunday last by the court-rnartial. A very intelligent 
man, Major. He drank his cafe au lait as usual. I know 
the pastor who accompanied him.” He winked his left eye, 
and said mysteriously : “ There are swarms of spies. How 
can you expect it to be otherwise, with this quantity of Ger- 


THE DISASTER. 


231 


mans that they took good care not to expel from Metz ! . . . 
But you are very serious, Major. However, MacMahon’s 
triumph ” 

Du Breuil looked him in the face. 

“ Come, now ! I’m not the one to inform you of it ? . . . 
A Chasseur d’Afrique brought the news yesterday evening to 
the Cafe Parisien. Metz was in a flutter of excitement. 
Only, by a decree issued by Coffinieres, the cafes are closed 
at nine o’clock, so that when they wanted to And the soldier 
nobody was there. What did he say? Unheard-of things. 
... A great flght under the walls of Verdun. MacMahon 
has killed thirty-five thousand Prussians ! Steinmetz is 
thought to be among the dead. I am inventing nothing. It 
is in the newspaper.” 

He drew from his pocket the Independant de la Moselle, 
Du Breuil, incredulous, ran his eye over the newspaper, 
which also related the audacity of German spies, and pre- 
scribed sanitary measures for the removal of soiled lint, 
which was being carted away by tons. 

M. Dumaine then said: 

“ Ah ! what a pity ! You won’t recognise our beautiful 
Esplanade. It is covered with tents, and on the Place Royal 
are railway waggons full of beds. What wounded ! Metz is 
nothing but a hospital.” 

He enumerated the public buildings transformed into 
ambulances — the Lycee, the Jesuits’ College, the convents, 
schools, orphanages, the new tobacco manufactory, the 
Palais de Justice, the Prefecture, the Fabert Garden, the 
hospitals, the Grand Seminary, the Sacre Coeur, the Ecole 
FTormale, the Bishop’s Palace, the prison, the barracks, the 
Jews’ almshouse, the Protestant convent, the Ligue de 
I’Enseignement, the Masonic lodge, and the Ecole d’ Appli- 
cation. 

The Bishop visits the ambulances every day. The 
Mayor, the Prefect, and Mme. Odent set an example of de- 
votion; each rivals the other in zeal. The town has built 
large sheds on the Polygone of the lie Chambiere. Private 
individuals throw open their houses. There is not an in- 
habitant who has not his wounded. I’ve three of them as my 
share.” 

He omitted to state that he had chosen them only slightly 
injured, in order to have to give less care to them, but that 
16 


^32 


THE DISASTER. 


his bad calculation had been defeated, because they got 
better, and ate like ten men. 

“ What are lacking,” he added, “ are doctors.” 

In order to increase the medical resources of Metz, they 
had sent into the town the staffs of all the divisionary am- 
bulances, only leaving a single ambulance for each army 
corps. Civilian medical officers looked after the wounded 
in the sheds on the Polygone. 

“ There it is like it is on the Esplanade,” said Dumaine ; 
the air carries away the miasmata.” 

And he expressed his disquietude on account of the 
crowding in closed buildings; he feared typhus, hospital 
gangrene, etc. 

“ In addition to that,” he said, “ they fear the medicine 
may run out.” 

His whip indicated the houses transformed into ambu- 
lances; they were marked out by the Geneva flag. Entire 
streets exhaled the odours of phenol and chlorine. Through 
the windows one could see beds, prostrate forms, white faces, 
and, coming and going, the coat of a doctor or the cap of a 
nun. They became silent upon meeting a covered tumbrel, 
which was carrying the dead. 

“ There are more than fifteen wounded at the Bers- 
heims’,” continued Dumaine. “ Allez Coco ! ” 

The old horse crossed the paved cathedral square. The 
modern Greek front, built under Louis XV., always jarred 
upon Du Breuil, on account of its disproportion to the im- 
mense Gothic building, lighted by large pointed windows. 
Many times as a pupil-officer had he gone in search of the 
shade and of quietness in one of the three solemn naves, or 
else, mounting the platform of the Midi tower, he had gazed 
upon the vast landscape bathed in sunshine. Higher still 
rose the steeple, which one could not climb without getting 
dizzy. He thought of the famous old Mutte, which on days 
of solemnity shook the tower with its powerful voice. 

“ A noble bell,” said M. Domaine. “ When will it ring 
out the triumph of our arms ? ” 

The carriage was entering Bersheim’s courtyard. In a 
corner was stretchers ; a mattress was drying. Bersheim ap- 
peared on the perron, looking aged, changed, his eyes spar- 
kling. He stretched out his hands to Du Breuil with an air 
of reproach. 


THE DISASTER. 


233 


My friend, was it, then, necessary to look you up ? ” 
And, without allowing him to speak : “ I know — I know . . . 
but your silence has very much pained someone.” 

Du Breuil blushed, and still more at his mistake. Anine ? 
No, most certainly it was not a question of her.^ 

“ I wrote you, however, and a porter took my letter to 
you.” Seeing that he did not understand, he said : “ You 
don’t know, then, that D’ Avol is here ? ” 

“ Here ! ” 

The cry slipped from him as though under the incision of 
a lancet, which pierces and alleviates. Here ! D’Avol 
saved! D’Avol at Metz! D’Avol escaped from the Prus- 
sians! . . . D’Avol, of whom nobody had been able to give 
him news ! 

“ Why, yes. On Thursday one of our doctors brought 
back three hundred wounded from Saint-Privat. Judge of 
my astonishment upon seeing D’Avol carried in. They had 
told me he was killed. Quick ! come and embrace him ! ” 
And as Du Breuil followed him, he took him by the arm, 
and said confidentially : “ Don’t take any notice of his bad 
humour; the poor fellow is a little nervous.” 

As they passed through three rooms, the wounded, 
stretched out in very white sheets, followed them with curi- 
ous eyes. Bersheim pushed open a door. Alone, in a small 
room, D’Avol, his shoulder swathed and bandaged, his left 
arm, fractured in two places, set in plaster of Paris, turned 
his head. His smile was contracted, hostile in its gentle- 
ness. 

“ Delighted to see you, Pierre ! You are in good health, 
as far as I can see. As for me, they have settled me. 1 
shall probably be one-armed.” 

“ Come, now,” said Bersheim ; Dr. Sohier answers for 
your arm.” 

There was a flash in D’Avol’s eye. He had taken a dis- 
like to the crusty doctor. He said to his cousin with feigned 
good-nature : 

So be it ! so be it ! as you like. . . .” 

Du Breuil understood that D’Avol’s pride was injured. 
That was the great fault of this noble soul. He showed his 
pride in his most insignificant acts, always being better 
dressed, better mounted, more elegant, than others. But why 
was he suffering in his pride ? Such a wound did him honour. 


234 


THE DISASTER. 


Not in the least; it humiliated him. He had a horror of 
being pitied. They spoke of covering his wound with iodo- 
form. Then, he said, he would stink. 

Bersheim left them together. D’Avol said: 

“Very busy, eh? They have hardly seen you. In these 
critical moments one can only think of one’s self.” 

These unjust words did not affect Hu Breuil. He had 
taken his friend’s uninjured hand, and was tenderly pressing 
it. Could a suffering man wound him? He had no pride 
in the case of those he loved. . . . His restrained emotion 
touched D’Avol, who knit his eyebrows, as though he feared 
to become tender. 

“ Well, my poor Pierre, here we are in a pretty 
mess! .... 

“ Bah ! ” Du Breuil affected gaiety. “ An army like 
ours gets over all difficulties.” 

Again there was the look of irritation, this time blended 
with pity. 

“Ah, you still have illusions? Well, I envy you. . . . 
In that case you are at the fountain-head of news and of de- 
cisions. You doubtless know the secret of these fine opera- 
tions.” 

Du Breuil cast an affectionate but serious look at him. 
D’Avol knew well that his irony was out of place, but, 
while reproaching himself for it, he took a pleasure in it. 

“ Come, now 1 ” he exclaimed in a harsh voice. “ What 
do you call the man who left Canrobert to be crushed — the 
man who the day before yesterday led his troops in the mud ? 
Explain to me, if you are able, your conference at Grimont. 
What did these great chiefs, these valiant warriors, say in 
order to remain attached to Metz ? ” 

Du Breuil again comprehended with a look D’Avol’s ex- 
citement, who jeered: 

“ Have pity on a poor devil who knows nothing, and who 
understands nothing at all ? ” 

His hand, dry and burning, for the first time warmly, al- 
most convulsively, pressed the friendly hand. 

“ My dear Pierre, you find me altered. I don’t recognise 
myself. These reverses one after the other turn my head. 
We draw back; we cannonade. The Prussians must have a 
pretty opinion of us ! . . .” 

Pride — always pride — but how noble this time! Their 


THE DISASTER. 


235 


hands were united, espoused, as though the same blood, the 
same pain, passed through them. 

“ Ah ! ” sighed Du Breuil. “ Who, then, understands 
anything about it ? ” 

An immense lassitude took possession of him. So many 
sleepless nights, days of fatigue, bitter emotions. . . . He 
suddenly recollected the two contradictory despatches sent 
by Bazaine after the conference on August 26th. One was 
to the Minister of War: “Still under Metz, with artillery 
ammunitions for one battle only. Impossible, under these 
conditions, to force the lines of the enemy, which are be- 
hind their intrenched positions.” The other was to Mac- 
Mahon : “ Our communications are interrupted, but feebly. 
We can break through when we like; we await you.” And 
in a condition of deep dejection, he saw trouble, he knew no 
more. . . . 

D’Avol was moved by his sadness. 

“ Come, quietly explain this Grimont story to me, my old 
Pierre.” 

“ The Marshal,” said Du Breuil, “ unfolded the situation. 
Soleille traced the military and political role which the 
Army of the Rhine ought to take. In case of peace it would 
weigh greatly in the balance, and would safeguard the pos- 
session by France of Lorraine. Besides, he said, we havq 
only ammunition for one battle, and he proposed to remain 
under Metz, disquieting the enemy by operations de detail. 
Ladmirault and Frossard approved, the latter laying stress 
on the exhaustion, not to speak of the discouragement, of 
the army. Canrobert begged that at least they do not re- 
main inactive. ‘ Let us scratch everywhere and incessant- 
ly.’ Lebceuf vivaciously threw off the responsibility for the 
misfortunes of the campaign. Bourbaki expressed a wish that 
they would give him air, as, by making a way by Chateau 
Salins, but without ammunition, what could he do? Final- 
ly, Coffinieres stated that the Place and the forts would 
n'ot hold out a fortnight, and that the army ought to re- 
main under Metz. Bazaine said, ‘ Amen.’ And there you 
are.” 

' “And MacMahon in all that? What did they do about 
him? What! he exposes Paris ... to come to our assist- 
ance; he lays himself open to being caught between two 
armies, and we don’t stir ? ” 


236 


THE DISASTER. 


Bersheim, who had just re-entered the room, emphasized 
the remark : 

“ All that is very suspicious, my friend. On the 23rd 
Bazaine received a despatch from MacMahon. He did re- 
ceive it, didn’t he ? Someone who knows states so.” 

“ Come, now,” exclaimed Du Breuil, incredulous. 

“ Shall I name him ? ” Bersheim lowered his voice. 
“ Colonel Charlys this morning said to a person for whom I 
will answer that on the 23rd — ^you hear? — he saw with his 
own eyes a despatch which the Marshal had just received 
from MacMahon. This despatch announced the approach 
of the ChMons army on the Aisne. Colonel Charlys cried 
out : ^ M. le Marechal, we must leave immediately.’ And the 
Marshal replied : ^ Immediately ? That is very quickly ! ’ 
‘ I mean to say to-morrow morning.’ The Marshal made the 
objection that there was much to be done, that at least two 
days were necessary. They discussed the question of bag- 
gage, and then the Marshal said to the Colonel : ‘ Above all, 
do not speak to anybody about this despatch.’ ” 

Du Breuil protested, so very improbable did this appear 
to him. Bersheim continued: 

Charlys only made the confidence this morning. This 
sham sortie, this comedy, had sickened him.” 

Du Breuil recollected, in a fiash, the movement orders pre- 
pared by Charlys; his sad air on the day of Grimont, his 
start when Laune informed him that Bazaine had not once 
during the conference made an illusion to MacMahon. He 
had then said in a low voice, “ If you knew! ” And Laune, 
startled, had looked at him. 

The evidence, the daylight, for a second blinded Du 
Breuil. He closed his eyes. Bazaine ! . . . Come, it was 
absurd! Bazaine, receiving warning that MacMahon was 
coming to his assistance, and carefully hiding it from every- 
body, letting his colleague — or his rival — run the risk of be- 
ing crushed alone ! That was romance ! Bersheim had mis- 
understood. A thing repeated over and over again got de- 
forrned. He felt himself in a hopeless chaos, in deep ob- 
scurity, and, in spite of himself, he doubted horribly. 

Anine entered, carrying on a tray D’Avol’s luncheon — 
a cutlet, cut into pieces, and some mashed potatoes, a glass 
of diluted wine, and some preserves. D’Avol took on again 
his ill look. 


THE DISASTER. 


237 . 


“ You are very kind, Anine, but I am not hungry.” 

There was a harshness in his voice, and one would have; 
said that the young lady’s presence humiliated, annoyed him. 
Silently, without appearing to notice it, she rearranged the 
pillows. She had hardly replied to Du Breuil’s greeting. 
Bersheim understood that as long as they were there D’Avol 
would not eat. 

“ Let us also have luncheon. Is it ready, Anine ? ” 

“ I believe so, father.” 

In her black dress, to which was pinned an apron with a 
bib with imitation sleeves in cambric muslin, she appeared 
to have grown taller. 

Good appetite ! ” cried D’Avol to them ironically. 

They again passed into the sick-rooms. Mme. Bersheim, 
Grandmother Sophia, and Thibaut’s wife were going from 
one bed to another, distributing the portions. Grandmother 
Sophia was saying to a big fellow with a sapper’s beard : 

Come, I have not the courage to refuse you a little 
soupe, although M. Sohier strongly advised the diet.” 

Anine pretended not to hear, so as not to have to blame. 
She would not allow the rules to he departed from. Her 
inflexible sweetness was, however, loved by all. Du Breuil 
was touched to see with what pleasure an old man with a 
gray moustache was looking at his plate. 

“ Going all right. Captain ? ” said Bersheim. 

But before one bed he turned away his head. A poor 
voice was moaning: 

Ho, thanks, that’s no good to me. . . . Nothing is any 
good to me.” 

Ah! those who died thus, without regret, without re- 
proach, tired, too feeble. ... Of Ms wounded, four were 
already dead. The first time that he had seen the sheet 
thrown over the face of the dead man he had sat down on 
the steps of the perron, weeping. His poor sons! . . . 
Come, they were undoubtedly lost! This blockade, which 
temporally retarded news, was, however, terrible. Bending 
over the last hed, a tall young fellow in spectacles was 
clumsily tying a napkin round the neck of a magnificent 
nigger, a cymbal-player of a regiment of the line. It was 
Gustave Le Martrois, who, wearing the cafe au lait blouse of 
a Garde National, was acting an an assistant infirmary 
attendant. 


238 


THE DISASTER. 


In the dining-room, where everybody had assembled, 
Mme. Le Martrois and M. Dumaine, comfortably installed, 
were in conversation. 

“ General Boisjol will doubtless not come,” said Bers- 
heim. “ Let us commence without him. The poor General 
doesn’t get rid of his anger.” 

Lisbeth and the pretty, fair servant brought in the dishes 
— beefsteaks, fried potatoes. 

“Rest easy,” said Bersheim, noticing Dumaine’s wry 
face ; “ it is good beef.” 

“ Ah ! ah ! ” exclaimed M. Dumaine ; “ horseflesh is mak- 
ing its appearance at the butchers’ ! ” 

“ Do you want some salt ? ” Bersheim asked Du Breuil. 
“We economize, you see ! ” 

And he passed him the only saltcellar, which Grand- 
mother Sophia had placed in front of her. 

Mme. Le Martrois lamented: 

“ When one thinks that butter costs five francs a pound ! ” 

“ We keep the eggs for our wounded,” said the Grand- 
mother. 

Du Breuil inquired about the food-supplies. Bersheim, 
who was a friend of M. Bouchotte, the tenant of the town 
mills, was informed upon the subject. 

“ The authorities have announced in the Metz news- 
papers that we have sixty days’ provisions. Was that to in- 
form the enemy? Do you know the exact number of mouths 
to be fed? Counting the active army, the garrison, the civil 
population, the wounded at the houses of the inhabitants, 
there are two hundred and fifty-eight thousand. That as- 
tonishes you ! The immigration from the neighbouring 
villages has increased the population of Metz from fifty thou- 
sand to seventy thousand mouths. . . . Certainly the grana- 
ries and the barns in the suburbs are overflowing, because 
the harvest was excellent this year. But who will profit by 
it, unless it be the Prussians? From the top of the Plappe- 
ville fort, an officer of the Engineers was telling me — M. 
BarrUs, you now him? — one can see the Germans emptying 
the farms and the villages in the Thionville valley; the 
Ilhlans, pistol in hand, conduct the convoys of peasants, and 
force them to march. Wheat, rye, barley, oats, straw, and 
provender; ah, parbleu! they are there to be taken away. 
But who thinks of it? It isn’t transports we need, for we 


THE DISASTER.. 


239 - 


have more than three thousand auxiliary waggons! When 
I think of the crops of my farm at Noisseville, at this hour 
pillaged or burnt by Prussians, I get furious. . . . But there 
is something more. Just imagine that between Hermy and 
Courcelles, on the railway lines, there were more than two 
thousand waggonloads of provisions belonging to the enemy, 
and large supplies at the Courcelles, Bemilly, and Hermy 
stations. With four engines and a sufficient number of 
trucks, it was easy to bring the whole lot to Metz. Eh ? That 
would have been a fine stroke . . . because from August 18th 
to the 25th there were hardly- any Germans on the left bank. 
. . . The Marshal did not consent.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” exclaimed Dumaine. I confess he can- 
not think of everything. But Coffinieres! His duty is to 
Constitute a committee for the surveillance of supplies. Well, 
yes. When General de Laveaucoupet sounded him on the 
subject, he replied to him that he knew what he had to do.” 

Gustave, in order to appear informed on the military 
question, said: 

Neither has the Governor of Metz constituted the de- 
fence committee, which is ordered by the regulation on the 
defence of the Places. But perhaps he awaits the Marshal’s 
orders ? ” 

After a hash, cooked in the oven, Lisbeth served some 
lentils. It was a more modest luncheon than usual at the 
Bersheims’. Penury was commencing to make' itself felt. 
And Grandmother Sophia, who was pouring herself out some 
water, said to Du Breuil: 

“It comes from the Moselle. Those imbeciles of Ger- 
mans have cut the Gorze water-conduits.” 

They spoke of the courage of the members of the partisan 
corps, to which the brewer Hitter, an old man with a white 
beard, gray hat, gaiters, and fowling-piece, was attached, 
and who had gained popularity. 

“ It is impossible that the army should not attempt to 
make a sortie ! ” said Bersheim. He added : “ Poor General 
Decaen is very bad.” 

' Anine’s eyes and those of Du Breuil met for the first time. 
The young lady’s meditative, absorbed attitude made him 
suffer. It seemed to him that Mme. Bersheim herself, with 
her admirable bright eyes, now so sad, was more reserved, 
colder, towards him. Doubtless they were sad, engrossed in 


240 


THE DISASTER. 


their work of charity and devotion. The wounded took both 
their time and their thoughts. 

“ F ather Desroques is worn out with fatigue.” 

After the coffee, Bersheim and Du Breuil re-entered 
D’Avol’s room by way of the garden. Upon seeing them, 
a sister wearing a large cap vanished with the luncheon tray. 
D’Avol had hardly touched his meal. His hand was burning. 
He was sombre. 

“ All the same,” he murmured, “ it is funny to have re- 
entered Metz.” And in answer to Du Breuil’s questions, he 
said: “You know that in those moments one lives as in a 
nightmare. I shall see that Saint-Privat ambulance as long, 
as I live ! ” 

He depicted it in ardent words : the house of a farmer in 
easy circumstances; a lower room with dying men lying 
on straw; a bedroom at the back, in which the doctors were 
operating, their sleeves turned up and their arms red to 
the armpits. The Saxons arrived with the night. There was 
then a blaze of fire, a tumult of pillage, raucous cries, the 
driving of oxen, the squealing of the pigs as they were 
dragged away by their ears. A house opposite finished burn- 
ing, hot gusts blew a pestiferous smell, and one saw in the 
glow of the beams a heap of corpses. Little by little the 
crowding became intolerable, and throats rattled with thirst. 
All this loathsome and acrid blood! this heavy reek! ... 

“ I dragged myself,” said D’Avol, “ into the courtyard, 
where a German platoon had piled arms. The soldiers, in 
search of wood to make soupe, were breaking the chairs and 
the cupboards. In a corner there was a large iron tank, half 
full of water,, collected in the neighbourhood at the cost of 
much trouble. The infirmary attendants dipped their soiled 
rags in it, and the doctors had just washed their hands and 
arms in it. My dear fellow! when the German cooks saw 
that they could not find a drop of water in the village, they 
filled their pots with this bloody liquid, and placed their 
saucisses aux poix in it to cook! ...” 

They shuddered, and a long silence followed. 

On the evening of the next day, Du Breuil, upon return- 
ing from a mission in the camps, found Restaud more ani- 
mated than usual. 

• “A despatch from Thionvillc, sent by Colonel Turnier! 
Two emissaries — Marchal, Flahault ! . . . Their despatches 


THE DISASTER. 


241 


were rolled in indiarubber balls. Flahault had his in his 
stomach. . . .” 

“ What is the news ? ” asked Du Breuil eagerly. 

“ Ducrot, who commands one of MacMahon’s corps, was 
to be at Stenay, on the left of the army, on August 27th. 
General Douay is at the right, on the Meuse. We must hold 
ourselves ready to march at the first cannon-shot.” Restaud 
added : “The recital of these two men is touching. They 
were arrested, searched by the Prussians, showed out by tho 
Mayor of Saulny, received by a cure, then by a farmer, and, 
by force of stratagem and energy, at last reached the out- 
posts.” 

It was a feverish night for the two officers — a night of 
hope for Restaud, of doubt for Du Breuil, who was harassed 
by Bersheim’s disclosure. . . . Would they really make a 
sortie? Did Bazaine wish it? Was he able? . . . Once 
more, in the confusion of his soul, he appealed to the disci- 
pline which closed his eyes, his ears, his mouth, which petri- 
fied him living. Who was he that he should determine and 
decide ? Nobody. A passive instrument, he owed his labour, 
his intelligence, his life. His fate was to obey. This re- 
nunciation of the soldier, so much like that of the priest, 
might appear to him painful : it none the less admitted of 
beauty and of nobility. Military servitude possesses austere 
grandeur. Never did Du Breuil understand it better than 
in these hours of anguish and of obscurity, in which, before 
the unknown of the future, he said to himself: “7 must not 
judge the man who is the supreme and responsible chief, 
he to whom the fate of one hundred and sixty thousand men 
is intrusted. He may have — he has certainly as a guide 
and excuse for his conduct — reasons of which I am igno- 
rant. A soldier like myself ought not to reason. . . .” He 
then called up Bazaine’s splendid career, his brilliant actions, 
his impassible bravery. But a suspicious shadow weighed 
on his insomnia. He thought of the inexplicable return to 
Metz after Rezonville and Saint-Privat, of the despatch of 
August 23rd, of Ch§rlys, of the day at Grimont. If, how- 
ever, it were true! ... To betray? No, but to manoeuvre, 
to tergiversate, to obey the counsels of an interested pru- 
dence, the calculations of -a secret ambition? ... To take 
possession of the open country offered risks ; Metz, on the 
contrary, was a sure basis. A conqueror, MacMahon would 


242 


THE DISASTEE. 


raise the blockade of his colleague or his rival, without the 
latter being exposed; conquered, what assistance would Ba- 
zaine be to him? . . . Paris would doubtless not hold out 
long . . . then, in case of negotiations, the enemy would 
have to count with the Metz army, intact, and with its chief. 
. . . “ Come,” he thought, “ I am wandering ; I’m feverish 1 
. . He thought of his father. What would the old man 
advise him, in the name of an honourable past, if not to 
push on one side all cowardly suppositions. Was he going 
to discuss like a Francastel, a Massoli? Ho; like Restaud, 
he must act. And Du Breuil, inviting a little repose, closed 
his eyes, his ears, and his lips, and stretched himself out in 
the darkness. 

He awoke in a calmer frame of mind. A fresh emissary 
— Macherez — who arrived from Verdun in the morning, car- 
ried a ciphered despatch to headquarters. J arras immedi- 
ately conducted him to the Marshal. Du Breuil was present 
when they left. Jarras, delighted, was saying to an artillery 
Colonel : 

“ We have excellent news ! How we are going to flog 
them ! ” And he swung his arm, as though using a whip. 

The Colonel replied: 

“ Yes, excellent news — news which is worth an army 
corps ! ” 

It was really a despatch from MacMahon. The Chalons 
army ought to-day — August 30th — to be twenty — perhaps 
fifteen leagues from Metz! He was filled with joy. Du 
Breuil looked at the emissary with a kind of tender admira- 
tion. His hope and confidence had at once returned. 

Orders which were given in the morning by the telegraph 
— which for the past two days connected the commanders 
of the army corps to the Ban Saint-Martin — were counter- 
manded, then in the evening were sent again, renewing with 
a few modifications those of August 25th. It seemed that 
the day of Grimont had been the “ dress rehearsal ” of the 
grand attack. It would be directed on the Sainte-Barbe by 
the same combined movements: the 3rd corps advancing by 
Hoisseville on the flank of the position, the 4th corps march- 
ing in front, while the 6th corps would advance in the plain. 
The Sainte-Barbe position captured, the troops would turn 
off on to the two Bettlainville and Illange road to reach 
Thiotiville by forced marches. 


THE DISASTER. 


243 


Decherac deplored that experience last time served no 
purpose. Far from deceiving the enemy, they were repeating 
exactly the same manoeuvres, on the same points, and at the 
same hour! There was no doubt they would be on their 
guard this time. . . . 

“It is an undoubted fact,” moaned stout Colonel Jacque- 
mere, “ that we do not know how to use our artillery. Why 
don’t we take all the batteries of twelve-pounders of the gen- 
eral reserve ahead, so as to overthrow and crush the ob- 
stacle ? It is necessary to strike quickly and hard ! ” 

Floppe pointed out that they were not taking bridge 
equipments. Did they count upon swimming over the 
Moselle? Charlys and Laune were conversing animatedly 
in a corner. Since Grimont, Charlys ill disguised his bitter- 
ness. At first, deceived by that flattering good nature of the 
Marshal, who from the beginning had employed him to 
Jarras’s detriment, he suddenly perceived the inefficacy of 
his zeal and of his efforts. ISTothing had had any effect on 
the slippery rotundity of the Commander-in-Chief. As much 
on account of disappointed amour propre as by restless patri- 
otism, Charlys, discontented, turned his back on him. Du 
Breuil caught the words : “ It is the same despatch, the same 
sense as that of the 23rd 1 ” Laune : “ Good 1 In that case 
he will not dare not to make a sortie 1 ” He added : “ In my 
opinion — and it is the advice of Leboeuf and Bourbaki — we 
ought to make a way through by the south, and throw our- 
selves in the Vosges; we should escape by dint of speed. 
But the Marshal is beholden to MacMahon to leave by the 
north, and to advance towards Thionville and Montmedy. 
Only, Sainte-Barbe must be captured by main force 1 ” 

On the morning of August 31st, Du Breuil again said 
farewell to Mme. Guimbail, who blushed as she spoke to him 
with tears in her eyes. Du Breuil found her less dry, less 
yellow, almost pretty. Frisch was exulting. Cydalise was 
well ; the fog was rising, the sun appeared. “ This time it 
is in earnest ! ” each one was thinking ; eyes sparkled, and 
there were no more careworn foreheads. Laune himself was 
joking; Charlys, white gloves upon his hands, was smoking 
a londres cigar with an absorbed air, happy. 

“ Well, we don’t set off ? Half -past eleven ! ” 

“ The same as before,” said Floppe. 

Ought not the 2nd and the 3rd corps, already on the left 


244 


THE DISASTER. 


bank, to have attacked since morning? A chasseur of the 
escort, who was adjusting his stirrups, murmured: 

“ There is no danger of them doing that.” 

Du Breuil looked at him. It was Jubault. Imperturb- 
able, he withstood the Major’s look. They were setting off. 

Always delays, confusion. The 4th corps had not passed 
at the prescribed hour; the 6th corps and the Guard felt 
the consequence. Bah ! the troops could deploy at their ease. 
Bazaine — decidedly he had time to waste — stopping on the 
Saine-Barbe road, reassembled the commanders of the army 
corps in a road-labourer’s house. He gave his instructions, 
and communicated to them Flahault and Mecherez’s de- 
spatches. 

A fine sun to cut one’s way through ! ” said Decherac. 

Yes, an admirable day! There was a look of hope on 
every face. Young officers laughed. In this radiant, warm 
weather life was worth living. 

“ Gargon, a bock! ” ordered Juhault. “ Boom, vbila ! . . .” 

What has happened? Nothing. . . . Time slips by — 
slips by irremediably. It is three o’clock. The commanders 
of the army corps have dispersed, and behind them trot 
Laisne, Cussac, Gex, Carrouge, Aides-de-camp, and orderly 
officers. What had they decided? To wait. Bazaine will 
give the signal — a cannon fired from the Saint-Julien fort. 
Then Lebceuf, under whose charge the whole movement was 
placed, might march. 

Du Breuil, behind the Marshal in the stream of the 
escort, now rides over the ground occupied by the troops of 
the 4th corps, and advances beyond the line of sharpshooters 
on the road leading to Villers-l’Orme. The Marshal con- 
structs an epaulement to shelter a battery. Then they re- 
turn towards Grimont, where another epaulement is built. 
A battery of large-calibre cannon will bar the road, will pre- 
pare the attack, or will assist the retreat. A company of 
sappers arrive, pile arms, place their knapsacks on the 
ground, seize shovels and pickaxes, and, under the direction 
of the non-commissioned officers who measure out the regu- 
lar profile of the battery, the earth is piled up and the epaule- 
ment is formed. 

Decherac ! ” 

He dashes to the Saint-Julien fort to ask for three 
twenty-four pounders. An artillery Captain follows him 


THE DISASTER. 


245 


with the teams. Du Breuil laments : “ What are we waiting 
for ? ” He pats Cydalise. Poor Brutus ! . . . He recalls the 
terrible fall, the dizziness of death. . . . And thus he pro- 
ceeds, knocked about with the escort, until a well-known 
voice — that of Decherac — calls to him. 

- “ My dear fellow, they pay for seats up there ! What 
a view ! ” He points out the glacis, the parapets, the heavy 
mass of the fort. “ It is full of Metz inhabitants, who have 
come to look on. I saluted Mme. de Fontades ” (a very 
pretty woman, whose husband, a gentleman farmer, had 
taken refuge at Metz, with their two young children). 
“ Sainte-Barbe is strongly fortified. We shall have our work 
cut out ! What are we waiting for ? The enemy is massing.’^ 

Every minute, in fact, German columns were reported. 
They were advancing towards the Moselle, were going to 
cross it. What did Bazaine say ? Only : “ That’s all right ! 
They are the troops of the left bank who arrive’” Certain 
faces are contracted with disquietude. Well! is the signal 
for to-day or for to-morrow? Eyes turn towards the Saint- 
Julien foft, and that cannon which is not fired. 

“ Fire! ” curses Jubault. 

“ Four o’clock,” says Decherac, looking at his watch. 

And under the dusty sun, in the midst of the expectation 
of the carnage, four o’clock rings out from steeple to steeple. 
Still nothing, and minutes become like centuries. 

Du Breuil hears his name called out. That is always a 
relief to him. A mission, however limited it may be, wholly 
engrosses and absorbs him; it satisfies that acute and pain- 
ful necessity for action which every man feels who is lost 
in a subdued and paralyzed crowd. There are limits to re- 
nunciation; sometimes one suffocates. The gallop relaxes 
his feeling of revolt: he is no longer a thing; he is some 
intelligent and responsible person. 

“ Go ask Marshal Leboeuf why he does not attack.” 

“ And the signal ? ” thinks Du Breuil. Has Bazaine, 
then, forgotten it? He gallops, and sees batteries at rest, 
regiments lying down, motionless- cavalry, those compact 
masses which in a few moments will be galvanized by the 
great signal for the attack. He skirts the division of the 4th 
corps, reaches the 3rd, recognises the fanion of the Marshal, 
heavy and tranquil, who replies that he awaits the cannon 
report. At the same moment a rumbling breaks forth, a 


2i6 


THE DISASTER. 


salvo is fired from the Saint- Julien fort, and then the heavy 
twenty-four-pounders of the battery.- The great mysterious 
breeze passes over men and horses as over fields of corn ; the 
cannon rend the air; the campaign guns thunder; the mi- 
trailleuses crackle; large clouds of smoke arise; blue and 
red troops deploy between the veils of dust. 

From that time it was to him a battle like every other, 
as beautiful and as lugubrious, with as much horror and 
more intensity, because the ardent hope of making a v-ay 
through fills every heart with marvellous ardour. He re- 
joined his rank, saw and heard the tumult of death — that 
reducing itself to brief images, simple acts, a kind of me- 
chanical life. There is a crossing in every direction of staff 
officers, gallops, dust, good news: the Leboeuf infantry cap- 
tures Montoy, Flanville; the dragoons Coincy. A shell! 
General Jarras has his horse killed under him. How excited 
the soldiers are! All goes well. It appears that Hoisseville 
is taken. Decherac falls; two of his ribs are broken; they 
take him away. Poor Decherac ! he smiles all the same, very 
feeble, and covered with blood. Ah! there is Blache out 
of breath. Bravo! He learns from the impassible Marshal 
that they move upon Servigny. Noisseville commences to 
blaze. The evening falls — ^wounded, dead, the dew, the fresh- 
ness of night. ... In the distance one hears the bugle 
sounding to the charge ; breathless, short, hurriedly it 
sounds, here fainter, there louder, in the valleys, on the 
plateaux : 

“ II y a la goutte a hoire 
La-haut ! 

11 y a la goutte a boire ! ” 

The refrain sounds, the heart bounds. With swords on 
high and bayonets red, how the charge dashes forward, rushes 
ahead in the midst of the fiourish of trumpets ! Hight comes, 
and Servigny burns. Great noises are heard above the rum- 
bling of the fusillade and the drums. 

“ Do you hear ? ” asks Restaud, whose eyes sparkle. 

“Yes,” Du Breuil hears. “‘Long live the Emperor!’ 
Come, we are cutting our way through this time. To-mor- 
row we shall be far away. . . .” 

The night is dark, but on the glacis of Saint- Julien’s 
brasiers burn ; here and there fires shine brightly. Decidedly 
it is victory. 


THE DISASTER. 


247 


An icy douche, a sudden sadness, falls upon the staff. 
Halt ! Each will camp on his own ground. Bazaine goes to 
the rear. Twice he passes round a wretched inn crowded 
with dead, and without saying a word, without leaving an 
order, takes the direction of the village of Saint- Julien and 
of Metz. Hu Breuil, a choking in his throat, tries — how 
dark it is! — to distinguish the faces which surround him; 
he recalls that voice which troubled him in the darkness of 
the evening at Borny. He hears it still; it is the voice of 
Laune, whom he dares to question: 

“ Colonel, what are we doing ? Where are we going ? ” 

Laune replies: 

“ God only knows ! . . . Ah, what an ordeal ! ” 

Humours circulate around them in very low voices. 
Charlys has heard repeated these words, which were spoken 
during the day by one of Bazaine’s Aides-de-camp: 

“ Yes, the Marshal is going to try to pass, but he really 
thinks the attempt will be unsuccessful.” 

Is it possible? Charlys murmurs: 

“Oh, it is only too certain! We are lost; he does not 
wish to make a sortie.” 

The Marshal stops at the village of Saint- Julien. He 
will pass the night there. Hendezvous for the general staff 
for four o’clock in the morning. 

Ho order is sent to the various corps, nor are they asked 
for particulars as to the day’s occurrences, and in regard to 
their situation. Uncertainty hovers above them; a few illu- 
sions are retained. Restaud’s conviction alone unholds Du 
Breuil, who is shaken, who, has again fallen into the depths 
of doubt and of anguish. They still speak to impose upon 
themselves and kill insomnia. It appears that it was old 
Changarnier, as white, as a sheet, so weak that he has to be 
assisted on to and from his horse, who told Leboeuf to sound 
the charge. “ Come, that I may once more hear my old 
African refrain.” And to a Major he said: “ Show that you 
are possessed of nerve.” They speak of him with respect, 
smiling the while. This little old man, so polite, so discreet, 
so brave, inspires keen sympathy. . . . What else is there? 
Leboeuf and Frossard are at loggerheads. The Fauvart- 
Bastoul division, separated from the 2nd corps, and placed 
under the orders of Leboeuf, continued obeying Frossard. 
Bazaine has not intervened. All the same, Sainte-Barbe, 
17 


248 


THE DISASTER. 


the key of the position, is not captured. Will they take it 
to-morrow? . . . Two hours’ rest in an icy-cold room, 
stretched upon a mattress in one’s clothes, and then the pale 
dawn appears, drowned in fog. 

A bad piece of news: the Prussians have retaken Ser- 
vigny early this morning, and are fortified there. But what 
is happening? General Jarras, summoned to the Marshal, 
returns thence, and confidentially dictates an order to four 
Colonels of the staff, who urgently take it to the commanders 
of the army corps. In addition, the Marshal has read to 
Jarras two despatches prepared for the Emperor — one in 
view of success, the other in view of a check, expressing the 
necessity for remaining under Metz. Strange foresight, 
thinks Du Breuil. However, the order carried by the four 
Colonels is not kept so secret that one does not know the 
sense of it. . . . “ Nothing is changed in the programme of 
the previous day, the object still being to occupy Sainte- 
Barbe and march on Bettlainville.” But the bearers of the 
order to the commanders of the army corps must confiden- 
tially inform them, on the. Marshal’s behalf, that, if they 
encounter too great a resistance, they must remain as long 
as possible in their positions, so as to withdraw in the even- 
ing, in good order, under the protection of the forts. When 
Charlys copied the order, he said to Jarras: 

“ But it is impossible ! This is an order to retreat. The 
commanders of the corps will not be deceived by it.” 

The cannonade had recommenced in the midst of the fog. 
Estafettes and Aides-de-camp followed one another. The 
Prussians, who had received reinforcements during the night, 
little by little gained the upper hand. The 4th corps received 
the order to remain on the defensive until the 3rd corps had 
recaptured Servigny. The Prussians gained ground, and 
retook Flanville and Coincy. The Fauvart-Bastoul division, 
owing to lack of artillery, had to fall back. Leboeuf, who was 
compromised, could hold his ground no longer. Du Breuil 
had been sent to the Guard, the eavalry division of which 
was drawing up, with the Forton division, to execute a 
gigantic charge on the open ground before Servigny; but 
Francastel rejoined him there, carrying the order to the two 
cavalry divisions to withdraw. 

“ Our right is in retreat,” he said. “ The 3rd corps is re- 
tiring. Blache has just taken a note from Leboeuf to the 


THE DISASTER. 


249 


Marshal. . . . The whole army returns under Metz.” He 
added, “ Blache is extraordinary ! furious ! He is holding 
his right fist stretched out in an attitude of malediction. 
Look, like this! ” (He imitated the gesture.) “ He received 
a bullet in his elbow, and is unable to unbend his arm. He 
appears to be threatening everybody. . . . And you think 
that prevented him from remaining on horseback? He is 
made of iron. He set off again as he came, without wishing 
them to dress his wound.” 

Du Breuil galloped in silence beset by the vision of 
Blache, with outstretched fist, cursing the retreat. He was 
unable to rejoin Bazaine. The Marshal, followed by his pri- 
vate staff, had returned to Metz for luncheon. At ten min- 
utes to one o’clock — Du Breuil looked at his watch — he was 
passing with the whole of the general staff, headed by Jarras, 
over the Sainte-Barbe road, returning to the Ban Saint- 
Martin. Decherac wounded, Restaud absent, he felt abomin- 
ably alone. 

He was horrified by Floppe’s jeering remarks and Mas- 
soli’s satisfied look. He drew near to Charlys, who was say- 
ing to Colonel Jacquemere: 

“ Assuredly the Sphinx has fastened us all together.” 

A regiment, still quivering, which they met, opened to 
allow them to pass. As upon the occasion of the return from 
Grimont, but with more rancour and sarcasm, the soldiers 
put them out of countenance. The officer’s eyes, seeking 
theirs, said with painful astonishment: 

“We shall never have such a chance again. Why are 
we returning? We do not want, then, to get out?” 

Du Breuil felt a silent reproof weighing upon his com- 
rades and himself. Wounded men on the roadside also 
looked at them with hatred in their eyes. They stretched 
out in interminable files with their heads bandaged up, their 
arms set in splints, their rough shirts stained with blood. 
Several of them were waiting, motionless, upon crutches 
until the general staff had passed away. Du Breuil cast his 
eyes to the ground. Jubault, in the meantime, was mur- 
muring : 

“ Much good there is in smashing your head ! ” 


250 


THE DISASTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

For three days, the day after Noisseville, gangs of men 
had buried the dead, buried the bodies of horses under lime, 
covered up refuse of all kinds with the soil taken from the 
canals which had been hollowed out to drain off the rain. 
The Metz district displayed its heap of ruins, its desert of 
cultivated land; the muddy Moselle flowed into the trenches 
for the defence of the bastions; the Seille looked as broad 
as a small arm of the sea. One could only see the bare earth, 
the water which was agitated at the hour troops of thin 
horses went down to it, the bare sky across which rain-clouds 
were scudding. In the ambulances and hospitals, already 
full in the town, crowded the three thousand five hundred 
men who had been wounded in the last fight. Public build- 
ings, like private houses, gave forth the perpetual odour of 
death. Everywhere were beds, stretchers, straw, and upon 
these sick-beds of misery poor, motionless, or gesticulating 
forms, hollow and yellow faces, acute, savage, and stupefied 
eyes. Death-rattles arose near wounded in a state of coma, 
the forerunner of the great sleep; the piercing screams of 
those who were under the knife issued from the walls ; putrid 
expirations made one think of flesh eaten up by gangrene. 

Infirmary attendants and Sisters of Mercy had an air of 
haggard insomnia; the jaded doctors were sad, as though 
satiated with the butchery, under the large tents on the 
Esplanade. In the waggons on the Place Royale hundreds 
of penned-up unfortunates were suffering, and at all hours 
the women of Metz came to bend over their bed-heads. Pale 
hands veined with blue, as well as red fingers pricked by 
needles, tented wounds with lint, wrapped them round and 
bound them tight with bandages. Nothing disheartened 
their agile courage. No wound nor pain was regarded with 
indifference by these charitable hearts; they were possessed 
of a consoling devotion, an inexhaustible pity for all. Du 
Breuil experienced a nameless feeling of distress, a sicken- 
ing disgust; he felt he knew not what cowardly desire to 
hang his sabre on a nail, and, closing the curtains, to loll 
upon his bed, his head buried in the pillow, to sleep like a 
brute, to think no more, to cease to be. 

It was Restaud who saved him. Such a state of prostra- 


THE DISASTER, 


251 


tion was dangerous. According to Restaud, one ought not — 
indeed, it was impossible — to try to seek refuge in oblivion 
from the horror of the present situation, but, on the con- 
trary, to imbue one’s mind with it as with a venom which 
burns, irritates, and sustains. To abandon one’s self was to 
wish to lose one’s self. He himself was resisting, was bracing 
up his will and his muscles, unshakable in his faith that a 
sortie would be made all the same, or that relief would come 
from outside. A stubborn Breton, he did not doubt, did not 
wish to doubt, on the subject of the safety of Metz and the 
fate of France. His obstinacy reacted on Du Breuil. So 
many men around them were discouraged. Many gave them- 
selves up to the blackest pessimism, welcoming every piece 
of false news. Characters altered. Massoli, deprived of milk 
and vegetables, showed a face covered with eczema, and com- 
plained from morn until night. Floppe, whose liver was out 
of order, became insupportable. Laune could not suffer him. 
Floppe took his revenge by biting remarks and caricatures. 
Francastel was tiring of his talkative vanity. 

“ And all that is caused,” said the chief medical officer, 
Discard, to him, “ because your stomach needs salt.” He 
added, “ You will see many more of them; ” and he went on 
to express fanciful theories on the subject of exclusive ali- 
mentation on horseflesh. 

One could not tell whether this eccentric old fellow, with 
his ruddy punchinello face, the large wart on his eye, the 
white hair of his eyebrows and his moustache, was speaking 
seriously or making fun of everybody. 

Every time that Restaud had a moment’s freedom, he 
sought Du Breuil’s company. A deep friendship, one with- 
out phrases, was slowly forming between them. They nevei* 
discussed. Sometimes they did not even attempt to speak; 
silence is a communion. On certain evenings Restaud, ordi- 
narily very laconic, commented upon the day’s events, trying 
to find a ray of hope in them. Optimism was, however, diffi- 
cult. There was talk of MacMahon having received a check 
near Stenay. Since the return of the troops to their former 
cantonments — the 2nd and 3rd corps on the right bank of 
the Moselle, to the south and east of Metz; the 4th and 6th 
corps on the left bank, to the west and to the north; the in- 
fantry of the Guard at the Ban Sainte-Martin and at Plappe- 
ville; the cavalry of the Guard and the reserve cavalry at 


252 


THE DISASTER. 


Chambiere — headquarters, reduced to the work connected 
with the information and parley department, was unoccu- 
pied. Du Breuil took advantage of the daily correspondence 
to ride over the bivouacs in search of a comrade like Vedel, 
or of a cordial relative like Lieutenant-Colonel de la Manse, 
who was camped with the 2nd Chasseurs d’Afrique on the 
glacis of the ramparts to the north of Metz. He had seen 
D’Avol again, and the memory of his last visit remained 
to him painful. D’Avol had been unreasonably annoying, 
aggressive, for him even hard, in the presence of Anine. . . . 
Was that the reason why he had not returned? He re- 
proached himself for it, and had Cydalise saddled. Ought 
he not to also visit Decherac, Judin, Blache, Poterin? 

On a Saturday, three days before, he had come to Metz 
to attend the funeral of General Decaen. The brave soldier 
had died in consequence of his wounds, also, it was said, of 
sorrow. Lieutenant-Colonel Poterin was under treatment 
at the Ecole d’ Application. . . . Metz, the Pont des Morts, the 
Rue Saint- Arnould, the low windows through which one saw 
wounded men! He loved the old buildings of the school, 
the remains of a Dominican abbey— the cloister, the abbatial 
residence, the library where so many times he had lingered. 
How the wounded had encroached upon the rooms, at the 
bottom of one of which, a small one, the Lieutenant- Colonel’s 
tumefied face stood out in relief. His hands clasped on the 
bedclothes, Poterin seemed to sleep, but his eyes were wide 
open. A whistling sound escaped from his pierced breast. 
At first, thanks to his robust constitution, they had hoped 
to save him; but for the past two days, murmured the in- 
firmary attendant, he only lived by a miracle. 

Colonel ! ” murmured Du Breuil. 

Poterin appeared not to hear. He was looking straight 
before him, as one looks with anguish at an unscalable wall 
or at an abyss. 

The infirmary attendant whispered: 

“ He has called for his wife and his children the whole 
night.” 

Du Breuil recollected. Poterin had once spoken of his 
people — father, mother, wife, three little girls, and no for- 
tune. The fate of this brave man who was dying there, far 
from those he loved, oppressed his heart. He turned his 
head, and saw in a neighbouring bed a face, quite white, 


THE DISASTER. 


253 


quite young, bound up in bloody linen, which seemed, in its 
distress of solitude and abandonment, to implore him. A 
black artilleryman’s coat with the galloons of a quartermas- 
ter was hanging above the bed. Du Breuil approached. His 
name? Louis Chartrain. The son of the State Counsellor? 
. . . He saw once more the stout, honest man with a red tie, 
who, at Saint-Cloud, was talking with Mme. Langlade, and 
trembling for his son. ... The wounded man, abashed, 
thanked him, blushed. Tears came into his eyes when Du 
Breuil said: 

“ Your father appeared to love you very much.” 

‘‘Ah yes. Major! Poor father!” 

Where had he got his wound ? At Rezonville. A Bredow 
cuirassier had split his forehead with a sabre blow. ... ' 

The dying Poterin, with a mechanical movement, was 
rubbing two of his fingers on the bedclothes, one against the 
other, as if he were trimming, still trimming an imaginary 
pencil. He was still looking fixedly before him without 
seeing. 

Du Breuil held out his hand to young Chartrain. 

“ Be of good courage ! ” 

What obscure providence had until then preserved this 
poor young fellow from death? Was it the tenderness of his 
parents which accompanied him from afar and protected 
him? . . . He thought of the Langlades, so indifferent, so 
superb, and the little second-lieutenant who was rotting in 
the ground. 

How to the school of Saint-Clement! . . . Blache was 
nursed there in the dormitory reserved for officers. A priest, 
dressed in an apron and occupied in humble tasks, advanced. 
He recognised Father Desroques, very thin and burning 
with fever. He smiled. MajoT- Blache a bullet in his elbow? 
Certainly, they had extracted it for him with great difficulty. 
He had supported the operation without a grimace, without 
a sigh. 

“ See, he is down there, looking at you ! ” 

Du Breuil approached quickly, followed by the looks of 
the wounded who were strong enough to still retain curi- 
osity. Blache was carrying his arm in splints. 

“ Very kind of you, my dear fellow. . . .” 

And immediately — eager for news — he questioned, 
growded, and accused. The Marshal — Pere Vas-tu vu, as the 


254 


THE DISASTER. 


soldiers called him — had left Leboeuf to be crushed. He 
praised the courage of his chief, who had offered up his life. 
Around him the staff had been decimated, and General 
Maneque had been killed. And if such sacrifices served no 
purpose ! . . . 

“ Where are we going ? ” he concluded. 

It was evident that Bazaine did not wish to make a sortie. 
Then! . . . 

Du Breuil could tell him nothing which was consoling. 
Already they were commencing to give out. rations. There 
was no more hay for the horses, which they were beginning 
to slaughter. The last oxen and sheep were eaten. They 
had commenced to consume horseflesh. 

He shortened his visit. When leaving he saw a doctor of 
the International, humpbacked, hairy, grimacing — the gorilla 
of Borny — leaning over a bed. With his long finger-nails he 
was manipulating a bistoury, working in the flesh of a great, 
stretched-out body, the arms of which were held and the face 
of which was concealed by a Jesuit father. 

“Major Couchorte,” said Father Desroques, who saw Du 
Breuil out. 

How for Decherac ! 

Brought back to Metz after being wounded, Decherac had 
had the good fortune to be met by M. and Mme. de Fontades 
near the Porte des Allemands. They had recognised him, 
taken him with them, and by main force installed him in the 
rather small apartment which they occupied for want of a 
better at Metz. There was a smell of new-mown hay, a cheer- 
ful voice, and two charming eyes. 

Mme. de Fontades exclaimed: 

“Major du Breuil! Certainly. . . . M. Decherac often 
speaks of you. Come forward* please.” 

There was a dark passage, a small bedroom. Decherac, 
still pale, was sitting in a large armchair, smiling. How 
could he help smiling, nursed by so amiable a woman, cares 
and attentions heaped upon him? 

“ Oh ! my wound is not dangerous. Three weeks’ rest ! ” 

He inquired of his comrades and work. 

“ Hothing important,” said Du Breuil, with a sigh. 

Decherac’s gaiety disappointed him; he felt sad and 
alone. Was it the light frou-frou of Mme. de Fontade’s 
dress, her blue eyes, the odour of new-mown hay? A tender 


THE DISASTER. 


255 


feeling of indolence came into his heart. How far away was 
Mme. de Guionic, veiled in a haze of oblivion! Anine. . . . 
She appeared to him still further away, inaccessible. She 
had hardly looked at him the other time. . . . Decherac, 
however, wished to know if they were attempting anything. 
Hothing! Bazaine had distinctly said, when leaving the 
Saint- Julien heights to re-enter this eternal Ban Saint- 
Martin : 

“ Well! Since it is thus, we shall now fight every day! ” 

Since then, the Marshal had ordered Canrobert to cap- 
ture Ladonchamps should an occasion offer, and Frossard, 
Mercy-le-Haut. Leboeuf was to support them, come to an 
arrangement with them. 

“ I know that,” said Decherac, “ a dubitative order ! ” 

But that very day, finding that they had delayed too late, 
Bazaine renounced the attack. They seemed to resign them- 
selves to the blockade; the roads were intersected and barri- 
caded; sheltered trenches were opened at several points; 
continued lines protected the front lines of the camps and 
connected the forts, the armament of which was being pushed 
forward. 

Decherac listened with polite attention. Du Breuil had 
noticed this fact, that often a wound disinterests an officer:- 
his campaign is over; he enjoys a well-earned repose. De- 
cherac’s indifference conformed, in short, to his smiling 
egoism. 

It was Judin’s turn. . . . He was nursed in the neigh- 
bouring street on the ground-floor of the house of Mdlle. 
Elise Sorbet, a poor and ugly old maid with a large nose, a 
large forehead under gray ringlets, a touching mixture of 
ridiculousness and kindness. Her cramped apartment could 
only hold one wounded man. She had chosen Judin, who 
appeared to be well brought up. A motherly feeling had 
made her attached to him. She petted him — the poor young 
man whose right arm was amputated! Before the house — 
geraniums flowered in the window — Du Breuil saw Vedel. 
Fatigue and suffering became him well. Tanned, grown 
thin, hardened, he had a brave and unconstrained air. In 
the condition of solitude from which Du Breuil was suffer- 
ing, the sight of his cousin gave him pleasure. For the first 
time he greeted him by his Christian name, which he found 
comical. 


256 


THE DISASTER. 


“ Good-afternoon, Casimir.” 

“ Good-afternoon, Pierre. You have come to see your 
friend? I also. I have come from the Esplanade and the 
Polygone. I’ve soldiers almost everywhere.” 

Behind them the door was open. Out of patience at hear- 
ing them conversing, tlie old maid said with ceremonious 
grace ; 

“Will you take the trouble, gentlemen, to come in?” 

There was an odour as of a damp cellar in the small 
drawing-room with its well-waxed floor, its rounds of tapestry 
before the chairs, its artificial flowers on the mantelpiece, 
and its pious images upon the walls. 

“You have come for news of the Vicomte?” 

She pronounced this word with veritable pleasure. This 
rich, titled young man, who had enlisted without anything 
obliging him to do so, seemed to her to be a hero. And now 
he would remain mutilated, maimed like a common work- 
man! Lowering her voice, she said: 

“He has no appetite. You must urge him, gentlemen, 
to eat. Yet I prepared him a good tapioca broth and two 
fresh eggs.” 

Vedel looked at Du Breuil in admiration. Fresh eggs 
were seventy-five centimes each ! 

“ I fear,” she added, “ that he doesn’t exercise sufiicient 
will power. The tenants on the first-floor have lost their 
wounded.” 

And conducting them by a miniature garden, where there 
was just room enough for a rose-tree and a canary in a cage, 
she pushed open the glass door of a small whitewashed room. 

“ Some friends. Monsieur Maxime.” 

Vicomte Judin raised an emaciated face. His too short 
right arm ended in a pad of linen, and gave a sad impres- 
sion; his left hand, quite white, seemed delicate, as though 
embarrassed, constrained at being alone. It seemed to shake 
the hands of Du Breuil and Vedel awkwardly. Mdlle. Sorbet- 
had discreetly disappeared. A fugitive colour above his 
cheek-bones, Judin smiled — a poor smile. 

“ Well, what news? ” he said. “ They told me that yester- 
day smoke was seen in the direction of Briey, and that 
cannon was heard. Was it that of MacMahon? They also 
told me that a great movement had occurred in the Prussian 
camps, that they have seen troops pass from the left to the 


THE DISASTER. 


257 


right bank. A Lieutenant who came to see me this morn- 
ing — Marquis, of the Voltigeurs of the Guards — w^as talking 
of the intervention of Austria. Bismarck and the King of 
Prussia will be sent back precipitately to Berlin. . . 

Marquis! Du Breuil smiled sceptically. He said: 

“ Far from that, it is rumoured that Marshal de Mac- 
Mahon, weakened or even beaten, has had to retreat towards 
the north.” 

Judin murmured: 

“ This ignorance is exasperating. . . . Why don’t they try 
to procure information ? ” 

They had in vain suggested to the Marshal the ascension 
of a manned balloon, and to Coffinieres the immersion of a 
telegraphic cable which ‘ would connect them with Thion- 
ville. As to the floating bladders thrown on to the Moselle, 
the despatch-balloons sent up by a chemist of the army, they 
had had no news of them. 

Judin felt he was still very weak . . . this rain, which 
was spinning out the miasmata, made the air unbreathable. 
Every now and then fetid smells came down from the upper 
story, where, Judin said, a Zouave, surviving the two 
wounded soldiers who died on the previous day, was decom- 
posing alive, eaten up by a terrible gangrene. He looked 
broken-heartedly at his stump. 

“What will they say at the club? Not very convenient 
for holding the cards I ” 

He smiled, but at the bottom of his smile what bitterness 
there was I It was the business of poor devils of soldiers 
and officers to get themselves maimed, while he. . . . 

When Vedel and Du Breuil had left him, Mdlle. Sorbet, 
beseeching and embarrassed, detained them. 

“ Gentlemen, will you do me the pleasure of accepting 
one of my prunes a V eau-de-vie? I make them myself. They 
say I am successful.” They were obliged to taste her fine 
large plums, sweet and strong. “ This poor child is very 
sad,” she said. “ He ought to get up, go out for a walk. , . . 
But it is always raining! . . .” 

The horrible stench descended, and entered the room. 
Vedel very quickly swallowed the contents of the bottom 
of his glass. Outside he said : 

“ Upon my application the Colonel has proposed Judin 
for the cross. But the Marshal is in no very great hurry 


258 


THE DISASTER, 


to occupy himself with the troops. He has not yet visited 
an ambulance.” 

“We are sold! ” cried a voice, so guttural and so raucous 
that he started. 

Du Breuil also turned round. Attached by one leg to its 
perch on the sill of a window, an enormous green parrot, its 
horny eyelids half open and its beak inclined, was looking 
at them sardonically. Du Breuil, pricked to the heart, re- 
called the Forbach rout, the great flapping of the wings of 
the green bird which was sobbing in the night : “ To Berlin I 
to Berlin ! ” 

He shrugged his shoulders and passed on. Vedel, indig- 
nant, jeered: 

“ Is he not stupid with his air of a stuffed bird I Sold I 
He repeats the catchword of simpletons and cowards. 
Sold ! . . .” And showing his flst, he cried : “ Shut your 
beak, imbecile 1 ” 

For three days the weather was wretched, a deluge inun- 
dating the bivouacs, the waters of the Moselle rising higher 
than they had ever done before, a black sky, a penetrating 
cold — such were the auspices of that never-to-be-forgotten 
Wednesday, the 7th, upon which the Sedan catastrophe, fore- 
seen since the 4th — Major Samuel, sent to parley, had learnt 
it from the enemy — struck Metz and the army a stunning 
blow. 

Two German newspapers, seized upon prisoners, reached 
the Marshal in the morning. Eighty thousand men had 
capitulated; MacMahon was dead; the Emperor was a pris- 
oner. . . . There was the explanation of those inexplicable 
movements of the enemy — columns deflling from the left 
bank on to the right — they were simply prisoners of the 
ChMons army, and those sounds of music, those 'cries of the 
night before last, victorious cheers. . . . Major Samuel, 
again sent to parley, returned with the conflrmation of the 
disaster. . . . The Corps Legislatif had been invaded by the 
crowd; the ministry had dissolved itself; the Empress had 
fled to England; the Prince Imperial had retired into Bel- 
gium. The Republic was proclaimed. Paris remained calm. 
Here is what was repeated, exaggerated, deformed, in the 
midst of the incredulity of some, the blind acceptation of 
others, the stupor of all: Thiers, Minister; the Paris depu- 


THE DISASTER. 


259 


ties meeting to constitute the government of the National 
Defence; Trochu, President. 

Before evening, six hundred French prisoners, which the 
€nemy owed to us in exchange for German prisoners, arrived, 
and recounted what they knew — some more and other less, 
according to the hour at which they had been captured. All 
were in accord on the main points. MacMahon’s army, com- 
posed of four corps (the 1st Ducrot, the 5th De Failly, the 
7th Douay, the 12th Le Brun), had left Chalons on August 
21st to march on Heims. It had gone northwards by Rethel, 
Chene-Populeux, and Beaumont, where Failly, on the 30th, 
had been beaten. Pressed by the enemy, it had had on Sep- 
tember 1st to renounce the march upon Metz by Stenay, 
and had established itself at the bottom of Givonne, to the 
right of Sedan. Until noon the action had been favourable 
to us ; then, the enemy having crushed our left, they had re- 
treated on Mezieres in the greatest disorder. The six hun- 
dred prisoners belonging to the left wing, which was cut off 
and surrounded, knew nothing more. They had carefully 
informed them en route of the captivity of the Emperor, and 
the capitulation of MacMahon. But that was doubtless, they 
said, a demoralizing rumour spread about by the enemy. Du 
Breuil hoped so ; Restaud was sure of it. 

Marquis came for news. The officers of the various staffs 
accompanying the commanders of the army corps — Gex, 
Cussac, Carrouge — all in a state of feverish anxiety, listened 
to the remarks of one of the Marshal’s officers. A few Turcos, 
questioned by Bazaine, had just stated that the 1st and the 
7th had been annihilated, the Emperor being present. But 
certain affirmations were confused, others contradictory. 
Bersheim, hastening from Metz, informed Du Breuil of the 
effervescence in the town, where the strangest stories were 
circulated. Marquis corroborated the fact, and embellished 
with assurance; MacMahon had dismissed De Failly, Douay 
was ravaging the Palatinate, Austria had declared war on 
Prussia, Italy had sent a hundred thousand men into the 
Tyrol. . . . 

Bersheim asked: 

“Is it true that the Prussians, to impress us the more, 
purposely chose its prisoners from all the regiments ? ” 

An officer affirmed it. Then . Bersheim, very pale and 
tears in his eyes, asked if there were any Zouaves and Cuiras- 


260 


THE DISASTER. 


siers. Du Breuil comprehended his hope : his sons were per- 
haps in that band, or perhaps a comrade would be. 

That evening, before going to bed, he tore otf the sheet 
of the calendar on the wall; the ephemerides bore the men- 
tion : ‘ Prise de Malakoff. . . The next day he found the 
opal ring in a box which he opened by accident. He had not 
worn it since the day the blood of poor Vacossart had stained 
it. He polished it, and having mechanically slipped it upon 
his finger, upon which the milky stone sparkled with pink 
and green reflections, he let it remain. ... If this deplor- 
able news were true, what would become of Mme. de Guionic ? 
Doubtless she had retired to Brittany — was allowing the 
storm to pass. At once she appeared to him a thousand 
leagues away; he pitied her like a forgotten person, like one 
who is dead — felt how much she had paled in his memorj% 
an obscure, uncertain image. Recent defeats, the nightmare 
of the blocade, the Empire fallen, crushed his imagination: 
all that seemed improbable to him. He was stunned by it; 
his soul was sick. - 

“ Frisch, my cloak! ” 

Rain, flooded bivouacs, benumbed men under the tents, 
surrounded by little lakes, fever, dysentery. . . . He would 
call upon D’Avol ! His heart, in the apprehension of suffer- 
irg, was oppressed. . . . Near the Porte de France he met 
two known figures, those of a man and a horse — Saint-Paul 
astride Musette. The Saint-Cloud veteran had one foot 
bound up and without a boot. 

“ Are you wounded, quartermaster ? ’’ 

He smiled disdainfully. A piece of flesh had been car- 
ried away by a fragment of shell on the morning of Septem^ 
ber 1st, as he was making a reconnaissance. It was not 
worth while talking about. Musette, so badly nouiished, 
was more to be pitied. He was walking her out to distract 
her. And then she sometimes cropped a little green, or got 
a handful of corn. He did not say that he was marauding 
for her. 

“ Are you being treated at the ambulance ? ” said Du 
Breuil, looking at him kindly. 

Saint-Paul saddened. No, he had nothing to do with 
doctors. Their knives had been inserted into too much rot- 
ten flesh; he had no wish that they should poison him. He 
was dressing his wound with his ration of brandy. 


THE DISASTER. 


2G1 


De Breuil made a friendly motion with his head; the 
veteran saluted, his sunburnt complexion having turned to a 
ruddy brown. Both of them thought of Lacoste. 

When he entered the courtyard of the Bersheims, Thi- 
baut’s wife, her eyes swollen, was calling to her husband. 
Her approaching maternity deformed her face and her 
figure. Her children — they looked ill, and the little girl 
had quite changed — pressed against her petticoat. Thibaut 
was in course of filling with bucketsful of water a row of 
barrels and tubs. An order from Cofiinieres had pre- 
scribed this measure in the case of each house, in view of 
a bombardment which was announced as imminent. The 
lame man came up, and took Cydalise into the stable. 
Bersheim appeared and looked sadly at Louise, who fied in 
tears. 

“ Poor Louise ! ” said Bersheim. “ She is crying for her 
father and mother.” 

The old Larouys, his tenants at Hoisseville, had remained 
like two faithful dogs to guard the house and lands. They 
had been killed by the same shell, one at the side of the 
other, on the evening of August 31st. A wounded Metz 
corporal, who was actually being nursed by the Bersheims, 
and who knew the Larouys well, had certified their death. 
The barn had caught fire, and the farm was destroyed. 

How is H’Avol progressing ? ” 

“ In spite of Dr. Sohier’s orders, he wished to get up. 
There was a stormy scene between them this morning. Be- 
tween you and me, Jacques’ irascibility surprises me. I have 
never seen him thus.” 

“ Suffering ? ” said Du Breuil. 

“ But my other wounded suffer,” retorted Bersheim, 
and they are not so difficult to manage.” He looked at 
Du Breuil. “ My wife is very ill. Since the arrival of the 
Sedan prisoners, she has taken no further interest in life. 
They have shut them up in the station buildings, awaiting 
their reincorporation. . . .” 

Du Breuil sympathized in silence with his disappointed 
hope. Bersheim sadly shook his head, and continued : 

“ It appears they are about to hand over others to us at 
the present time. . . . What is it you want, friend ? ” 

He turned towards an unknown man dressed in gray 
cloth trousers, and a gallooned Zouave coat, who had just 


262 


THE DISASTER. 


staggered into the courtyard. Suddenly — what is the matter 
with Bersheim ? He wildly rolled his eyes, uttered a piercing 
cry, and opened his arms. 

“ Maurice, my child, is that you ? ” 

And they clasped each other in their arms, sobbing. 

“How is it you are here? Is it really you? How pale 
you are! Ah, how happy your mother will be! . . . And 
your . . . brother, and . . . Andre ? ” 

He was answered by a silence. The unfortunate fellow 
— what was his age? Who would think he was twenty-five? 
— the lamentable prisoner, feverish, shivering, with his hol- 
low, wrinkled face, his inflamed eyes, murmured: 

“ Oh, father ! father ! ” 

“ You do not reply to me,” groaned Bersheim. “ Andre 
is dead, is he not ? ” 

Still the terrible silence. Bersheim let. fall his arms, an 
infinite sorrow making him pale. All his blood flowed back 
to his heart. 

“ My God ! ” he murmured in a sob, and seizing the son 
who remained to him by the shoulders, he despairingly 
embraced him; then, stepping away from him, and again 
clasping him closely in his arms, he said : “ My child, how 
thin you are! how you must have suffered! Come, 
come ! . . .” 

He led him away, soaked with water, covered with mud, 
losing one of his broken shoes. Du Breuil then saw Anine 
rush from the perron. Without doubt she guessed. 

Father, do you want to kill mother? Hide Maurice ! ” 

She threw herself into her brother’s arms, but the poor 
fellow, ashamed of himself, repulsed her, murmuring in an 
indistinct voice: 

“ Do not approach me.” 

She understood that it was because of his filthiness. 
With a fine shrug of her shoulders, she drew him towards 
the laundry, saying: 

“You must be dying from hunger. Wait; I’ll bring you 
some broth and some eggs. . . .” 

She spoke not of death, but, great God! what must she 
not have felt under her calm? Bersheim took Du Breuil, 
who wished to withdraw, by the hands. 

“ Oh, friend, remain ! Do not abandon us when a little 
happiness comes to us. . . . Happiness so bitterly mingled! 


THE DISASTER. 


263 


Poor Andre! Ah, what misery! In what a state Maurice 
i-v. turns to us! . . 

And at the same time, his eyes falling upon his sleeve, 
he rid himself of the vermin with a fillip. By means of a 
bath and decent clothes to replace his rags, a man with a 
human face succeeded the ragged individual of a short time 
before. And while awaiting Father Desroques, for whom 
someone had gone in search — he alone, with his ardent piety, 
could prepare Mme. Bersheim — Maurice spoke, spoke as in 
a fever, with a voice which had become young, the voice of 
a child who has returned to the fold. Bersheim drank in his 
words; Anine, grave, appeared and disappeared; while Du 
Breuil, his heart wrung with pity, listened to the bubbling 
and the flowing, in the young sergeant-major’s narrative, of 
an inexhaustible stream of miseries. 

The disbanding at Woerth, the flow upon Saverne, the 
reorganization at Chalons, then the slow flowing back of the 
army in disorder, dying of hunger, pillaging, intoxicating it- 
self, as far as that funnel, that abyss — Sedan! . . . The 
desperate struggle — the 1st Zouaves fought well ! — the crush- 
ing defeat, the horrible rout, the agglomeration cf all the 
debris of the regiments in the Place, and, finally, the capitu- 
lation! He said the Emperor was going to give up his 
sword, spoke of the frightful misery of the soldiers dying 
with hunger on the Presqu’ile d’lges, and of the evacuation 
of the successive columns of prisoners on the 3rd. . . . 
Since then he had hardly eaten; always on the march, urged 
forward by blows from the butt-end of rifles. Those who 
fell were shot. En route they had learnt of the captivity of 
the Emperor. The war would not last ; Strasburg was about 
to surrender ; Paris could not hold out. Metz would be bom- 
barded that same evening. 

A dark, shadow rose up before the door. It was Father 
Desroques. He took Maurice’s hands, held them clasped for 
a long time, deep pity making his lips tremble, a sorrowful 
faith shining in his eyes. After a few minutes’ conversa- 
tion he sighed: 

I shall, then, be the messenger of God ! ” 

Anine led Maurice away, telling him to make no noise. 
Bersheim followed them. Du Breuil, who knew the house, 
went into D’Avol’s room. He did not find him there, but 
saw him at the bottom of the garden, stretched upon a couch, 
18 


264 


THE DISASTER. 


across which stretchers were laid. His features were con- 
tracted, his air was hard. D’Avol pretended not to see him 
advance; did not turn his eyes until the gravel crunched 
under Du BreuiFs boots. 

“ Hallo ! Pierre, is that you ? ” 

“ Do you know the news ? ” 

“ Yes, Maurice. . . . Lisbeth came to recount that to me. 
The poor devil’s not very brilliant, eh? His brother has 
paid his debt. I prefer not to be present at this family 
scene.” 

This dry tone, this ironical voice ! — ^how they had changed 
his Jacques! But D’Avol continued: 

“You are looking at my arm? Sohier is an ass. Bah! 
I shall be 'sufficiently cured for the capitulation.” 

“ What do you say ? ” cried Du Breuil. 

“ I say, for the capitulation. Because it’s that, isn’t it, 
gentlemen of chief head-quarters, officers of Bazaine, which 
you are preparing for us? This time I don’t ask you to 
explain to me the Hoisseville sortie. Eh? That would 
embarrass you ? ” 

Du Breuil looked at him. Such a tone! D’Avol was 
mad! 

He was going to reply, when he heard a slight rustling. 
Anine was behind them. Her face was radiant, but her eyes 
were full of tears. 

“Mother gave a great cry, then she called for Maurice, 
and they are now crying together. Come, rejoice with us.” 

Although D’Avol had distinctly seen Gustave and Thi- 
baut, who drew near to carry him upon his couch, he said, 
in a jeering voice : 

“ It’s all very well for Pierre. You forget that I am 
powerless ! ” • 

What had come over him? Anine’s only reply was to 
smile with a sort-of compassion, the dignity of which struck 
Du Breuil. Behind the wounded man he said, in a very low 
voice : 

“ What is the matter with D’Avol ? ” 

She remained silent. Then he gently murmured: 

“ I participate in your joy.” 

After the lapse of a moment she said : 

“ Maurice has recounted the death of Andre. The Mors- 
bronn Cuirassiers fell like heroes. . . .” 


THE DISASTER. 


265 


He thought of Lacoste, and said : 

“ Yes, it is splendid to die in that way! ” 

In the drawing-room, among the affected group which 
united Maurice and his mother, Bersheim at one side. Grand- 
mother Sophia at the other, Father Hesroques a little on one 
side, Du Breuil sought the beautiful eyes of Mme. Bersheim. 
She was transfigured. A sorrowful mother, she bent her 
head upon her son’s shoulder, and, with sweet and silent 
tears, opened her heart. Du Breuil respectfully kissed the 
hand which she held out to him. He turned towards D’Avol, 
whom they were carrying: 

“Your cousin Jacques,” said Grandmother Sophia. 

Maurice rose to embrace D’Avol, who submitted to it, 
pale, fire in his look. 

“ My poor fellow ! ” he said. “ You bring us pitiful news. 
Things don’t go very much better here.” 

Hard expressions, which were followed by a feeling of 
uneasiness. . . . With his shaven head, his wan cheeks, 
Maurice had, indeed, the appearance of a poor fellow, a sad 
child. Seized with bashfulness and shame, humiliated by 
this tone, this air of reproach, he lowered his eyes. Was it 
his fault if he had been conquered and made prisoner ? 

“ Then you have capitulated ? ” asked D’Avol. “ A whole 
army ? I hope you were, at all events, beaten ? ” 

But Anine interposed: 

“ To-riaorrow, later. . . .” 

Again D’Avol’s mouth contracted. Du Breuil was aston- 
ished at so bitter a patriotism, at so much harshness, so much 
injustice. . . . 

Upon returning to the Ban Saint-Martin in the midst of 
a torrential rain, he heard the sound of a violent cannonade. 
Might was about to fall. Flashes of lightning intercalated 
the detonations. What was the meaning of this infernal 
uproar ? The bombardment thundered forth until nine 
o’clock, and then ceased; the rain stopped, and a strong 
wind carried away the smoke. And that was all. Du 
Breuil heard in the morning that their losses were insignifi- 
cant. They were lost in conjectures upon the subject of this 
noisy demonstration. 

On that day they commenced to distribute corn to the 
horses. Coffinieres was ordered to call into the town all 
the existing provender. A rumbling was heard in the direc- 


266 


THE DISASTER. 


tion of Verdun, said some; of Toul, in the opinion of others. 
Through the mouth of a wounded soldier, who had escaped 
from Ars, and who had seen a bill which had been brought 
from Nancy, they learnt that Paris, Lyons, Marseilles, Bor- 
deaux, and Rochefort had proclaimed the Republic. One of 
the Sarrebriick prisoners, who had been exchanged, gave 
precise details: Le Flo was Minister of War; the Emperor 
was undergoing his captivity at Cassal; the Prince Imperial 
was in London. There was no mention of the Empress. 
Jules Eavre, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, had written to 
the King of Prussia to remind him of his own declaration: 
“ War was directed not against France, but against the Em-' 
peror; the time had come to prove his sincerity, and to 
make peace.” But how could one delude one’s self by such 
a hope? 

On the following day. Major Samuel, summoned to the 
outposts, read the confirmation of the fatal news in the 
Gazette de la Croix. A Prussian ofiicer stated, upon his 
honour, to the ofiicer sent to parley, that the Prince Royal 
was to enter Paris that wery day. On the 12th, the Marshal 
convoked the commanders of the corps and the generals of 
divisions to his headquarters: in the presence of the Sedan 
disaster they must renounce important engagements, content 
themselves so as to keep the troops on the alert, with small 
operations de detail, the initiative of which the command- 
ers of the corps would have to take; they would thus await 
the orders of the Government. He charged the general 
officers to communicate what they had just heard to the 
troops. On the same day M. Debaines, an Embassy secre- 
tary, who had been attached to the general staff since the 
opening of the war, asked Bazaine for authorization to cross 
the Prussian lines. Captured and brought back to Metz the 
same evening, he addressed to the Marshal a confidential 
report of a conversation which he had had with some Prus- 
sian officers. A resume was as follows : There were six hun- 
dred thousand Germans in France; the country was in no 
way enthusiastic for war ; unless it was the Metz army, there 
was no army regularly organized. The town was threatened 
in the near future by a siege, which would be commenced 
when the heavy artillery had arrived. 

Immediately after taking cognizance of this document, 
Bazaine ordered Colonel Nugues at once to send copies of it 


THE DISASTER. 


267 


to the commanders of the army corps. The officers who 
wrote under the Colonel’s dictation shared his reprobation. 
General Jarras, to whom Colonel Nugues protested, con- 
sidering the transmission of a document of this nature 
dangerous and censurable, went to speak about it to the 
Marshal. He returned and ordered the suppression of the 
final resume in the despatches sent to the commanders of the 
army corps; the despatch which was intended for them 
would be read to them, and then it would be destroyed. 
Charlys and many others vivaciously expressed themselves 
on the subject of this communication, the clandestine charac- 
ter of which they blamed, just as at first they had blamed its 
disclosure. 

On the 14th, a brigadier of Sapeurs-Conducteurs of the 
1st Regiment of Engineers, named Pennetier, who had 
escaped from Sedan, brought newspapers which the Mayor of 
Ars had handed to him for the Marshal. They contained 
the proclamation which on September 8th was addressed to 
the French people by the new Government, and the convo- 
cation of the electors on October 16th for the election of a 
National Assembly. The Mayor of Ars had added to them 
a copy in his own handwriting of Jules Favre’s circular of 
September 6th. On the 14th, the Independant de la Mo&elle. 
— printed on yellow paper, since white had run out — pub- 
lished a proclamation, signed by Coffinieres, the Prefect, 
and the Mayor, in which the Sedan disaster was officially 
announced. An appeal was made for resistance and patriot- 
ism. On the 16th, a general order brought to the knowledge 
of the Rhine army the news which had been on every tongue 
for the past week. “ . . . Our military obligations towards 
the country in danger,” added the Marshal, “ remain the same. 
Let us, then, continue to Serve it with devotion, and with the 
same energy by defending its territory against the foreigner, 
and social order against evil passions. I am convinced that 
your morale, so many proofs of which you have already given, 
will remain on a level with all circumstances, and that you 
will add fresh titles to the recognition and the admiration of 
France.” 

At the same time the Marshal had an ordinary despatch 
handed to two horsemen of the 7th Cuirassiers addressed to 
the Minister of War. 

“ It is urgent that the army,” he said in this despatch, 


268 


THE DISASTER. 


should know what is going on in Paris and in France. We 
have no communication with the interior, and the strangest 
rumours are spread about by prisoners handed over to us by 
the enemy, who also disseminate stories of an alarming 
nature. It is important that we should receive instructions 
and news. We are surrounded by considerable forces, 
through which, after two unfruitful fights, we have in vain 
tried to break.” 

On the following day Du Breuil went to Metz. 

At the Ecole d’ Application he had sought the eyes of 
Colonel Poterin, but he saw only a stiff form under a sheet. 

“ He died early this morning,” said young Chartrain to 
him. And, after exchanging a few words on the subject of 
this lugubrious end, he added timidly: “Major, is it true 
that one can write to one’s parents by hallon-depeche ? ” 

A little paper or cloth balloon, made at the school, each 
day fioated away charged with letters. Du Breuil had a 
slip of foreign-post paper upon him, and he undertook to 
get to the Place a few lines written by Chartrain. When 
on the way he met Barrus, who was very excited. 

“ At last this Government of pleasure, waste, and lucre, 
has fallen! The Republic is going to save us. Jules Favre, 
at least, speaks like a man I ” 

He drew from his pocket the Independant de la Moselle 
— this time a bright pink — and read with conviction : 

“. .. If it is a challenge, we accept it! We will give up 
neither an inch of our territory nor a stone of our fortresses. 
An ignominious peace would be a war of extermination at 
short notice ! ” 

His eyes shone, and there was a pronounced wrinkle on 
his sectarian forehead. 

“What are they waiting for to proclaim the Republic 
here ? ” he exclaimed. He stopped short, and, pointing out a 
pastry-cook’s, said : “ Look ; at such a time — that is what 
disgusts me ! ” 

Du Breuil carried away a brief vision of officers with 
large moustaches eating bonbons, swallowing eclairs, and 
buns. Barrus jeered: 

“These cavalry gentlemen come to do their little mar- 
keting in the morning, followed by orderlies with baskets on 
their arms. It is said that certain chiefs only think of eat- 
ing well. Our soldiers, since their ration of bread has been 


THE DISASTER. 


269 


reduced to five hundred grammes, have joined the long string 
of people waiting at the bakers’ doors. The other day I saw 
carts with white bread going through the camps. The sol- 
diers were buying it and throwing away their allowance of 
bread. This traffic ought to be forbidden. We are not mak- 
ing use of the resources of Metz, but wasting them.” 

He stopped short and looked Du Breuil in the face: 

“ Is it true that Bazaine has written to Prince Frederick 
Charles asking him for a detailed account of the truth of 
the situation ? ” 

Du Breuil started. 

‘‘ I do not know.” He added, rather dryly : “I do not 
think so.” 

Barrus looked at him with a kind of strange sympathy, 
of ironical pity. 

“ Ah yes, you . . . you are honest ! ” 

He shook him by the hand, as though to crush it, and 
rapidly moved away. 

“ A little cracked,” thought Du Breuil. And he felt mor- 
tally sad. He was hardly commencing to see clearly, to 
obtain a correct idea of the situation and its consequences. 
. . . Touching images passed before his eyes. He pictured 
to himself the Emperor a prisoner, the Empress and the 
Prince Imperial in exile. These images did not remain 
fixed; they defiled as in a nightmare. A new Government — 
new men . . . The Emperor, with his grave, suffering face; 
the fine haughty eyes of the Empress; the eager crowd of 
courtiers! And all that he had heard for several days — the 
odious swarming of reproaches, recriminations, hopes, am- 
bitions. . . . Those who lamented when thinking of what 
they were going to lose; those who rubbed their hands when 
thinking what they were going to gain ! The soiree at Saint- 
Cloud filled his memory: the correct Champreux, the chat- 
terer Jousset-Gournal, Mme. d’Avilar with her bold face of 
the intriguer, proud Comtesse de Limal, the yellow-faced 
Mme. de Vernelay — courtiers! courtiers! . . . What were 
they thinking, saying, and doing at present? A new Gov- 
ernment! . . . All that foundered with the former Govern- 
ment : the eagles, the victories of the two Empires, the fetes 
of peace and war, the solemn salvos of August 15th, and on 
the morrow — Waterloo and Sedan! Ah, a merited expia- 
tion, but so bitter and so smarting! As a chastisement for 


270 


THE DISASTER. 


their imprudence, their thoughtlessness, their feebleness, how 
people would throw mud at the fallen sovereigns, how they 
were going to make them pay for their days of triumph and 
splendour! What dirty stories already were current, what 
pointless jests! Du Breuil considered that the respect due 
to misfortune was sacred. And yet, although, with three- 
fourths of the country, he had gaily welcomed war, he cursed 
it when he thought of the censurable lack of foresight, the 
foolish thoughtlessness of these masters of France, who had 
lost everything by losing themselves. 

Without noticing, he had entered the Bersheims^ seeing 
there the ambulance, the faces which were already familiar 
to him — the good old Captain with a white beard, the nigger 
cymbal-player who laughed with a clear childish laugh, show- 
ing his white teeth. There was an empty bed, that of the 
little soldier who had complained of having a taste for noth- 
ing. He had been taken to the tumbrel, sewed up in a sack. 
Where, then, were the Bersheims ? He pushed open D’Avol’s 
door. Some officers were there upon a visit, including Car- 
rouge — impetuous, like to a dry pimenta with his purple 
face. He was crushing with his irony “ little M. Trochu,” 
and Gambetta, whom he called “ grand beta.” Ho more 
Empire, no more Imperial Guard, and no more Carrouge ! 

“ I don’t serve the Republic! ” he said, striking his breast, 
upon which his cross and medals jostled together. 

Comte de Cussac smiled disdainfully: 

“We are going to laugh, gentlemen. I am awaiting the 
Parisians on the ramparts. Peace will be declared in a fort- 
night.” 

Captain de Serres, of D’Avol’s battery, approved, straight- 
ening himself up in his pelisse, which he nipped with two 
fingers like a corset. D’Avol had hardly turned his head 
towards Du Breuil, and mumbled out a “ Good-day, Pierre ! ” 
He was in bed. Getting up too soon did not do him any 
good. Sohier was right. 

“Politics to the devil!” he cried angrily. “We are sol- 
diers; we are blockaded in Metz, and our duty is to get out 
of it. That is the only thing I know. And if we had heart, 
we should force Bazaine to make a way out ! ” 

“ Oh, oh ! ” exclaimed voices. . . . “ One doesn’t force a 
Marshal of France like that.” 

“Ho,” said D’Avol in the midst of deep silence; “but 


THE DISASTER. 


271 


one can replace him when he doesn’t wish to fight. There 
are older Marshals.” 

A feeling of uneasiness reigned. D’Avol felt that the 
silence expressed indecision, blame, respect for discipline, 
fear of being compromised. He changed his tone : 

“ You are wearing a pretty ring, Pierre.” He added: “ I 
recognise it. You had it set at Metz, at the Jew Gugl’s, 
hadn’t you ? ” 

The company rose. Anine and M. Bersheim had just 
entered, the latter bringing lemonade, the former glasses. 
D’Avol smiled mockingly. 

“ Isn’t it an opal ? A fine stone ! Ah ! it reminds me of 
a bracelet which I saw a pretty woman wearing.” 

Du Breuil felt Anine’s eyes rest upon him for a second. 
. . . What gadfiy was stinging D’Avol? Why this allusion, 
which was evidently intentional? . . . Usually he had so 
much tact. Had illness changed him to this degree? Had 
the paroxysm of public misfortunes embittered his unac- 
commodating character? . . . He persisted: 

“ Just look at Pierre’s ring, Anine. In his place I should 
be frightened to wear so fine an opal. Those stones bring 
with them a kind of fatality. . . . But there are seductive 
fatalities, aren’t there, Pierre? I recollect the evening at 
the Opera. . . .” 

“ Jacques,” said Du Breuil, and the serious accent of his 
voice astonished himself, “ let us finish with this pleasantry.” 

Full of anxiety, he sought Anine’s eyes. She was no 
longer there. Bersheim was conversing with the ofiicers, 
filling their glasses. Du Breuil refused that which was held 
out to him. D’Avol stretched out his hand, and said iron- 
ically : 

“ To your amours, Pierre ! ” 

Du Breuil pretended not to hear. He almost hated 
D’Avol at that moment. A teasing joke? ... Ho, Jacques 
had wished to discredit him, to lessen him in Anine’s esteem 
by letting it be supposed. ... At the thought of this dis- 
loyalty, he was seized with anger. . . . Jacques, then, loved 
his cousin! He was jealous? . . . Why? Did his irasci- 
bility, his bitterness, arise, then, from seeing Anine show 
him, Du Breuil, a slight preference? . . . He was momen- 
tarily seized with stupor. Did he himself love Anine? Had 
he even thought of loving her? ... Ho; and yet the idea 


272 


THE DISASTER. 


that D’Avol thought he was the preferred one caused him 
intense joy. However, this misunderstanding left a deep 
rancour towards his friend. Wounded amour-propre? Ho; 
there was something else, which he could not clearly make 
out, which separated them, D’Avol and he. . . . 

Soon he left without being noticed. Anine met him in a 
passage. Noble and pure, she looked him straight in the 
face; he lowered his eyes. . . . Did she judge him guilty? 
Did he owe to her account of his past ? He felt an irresistible 
desire to say to her: “ D’Avol was joking. ... I have never 
loved anybody ! ” and to renounce his sweet and proud amie. 
. . . A few moments afterwards he was resting his elbows 
on the parapet of the Pont de la Comedie, watching the rapid 
flowing water, the turbid water which descended towards 
Thionville, reaching free countries. A horrible distress, a 
moral discouragement paralyzed him. All these reverses, 
such terrible news, were too much. . . . 

He thought of his parents, of Mme. de Guionic ; stretched 
out his soul in a supreme effort, and did not even succeed in 
feeling affected. He felt old, immediately aged at a blow. 
By following the current of the dark water, he felt a kind of 
dizziness. Whither were they going? How would this fin- 
ish? Would they ever leave this Metz, which, like a dia- 
bolical loadstone, attracted and held them fast? 

D’Avol, Anine . . . He was suffering much. Why did 
Jacques no longer like him? for he foresaw, divined that 
D’Avol no longer liked him. What had he done to him? 
Is it true that certain friendships are like those glass am- 
pullm which one can throw to the ground without breaking, 
but which, if touched on a single spot, even lightly, break 
and fall in dust? Was their friendship like that? . . . 
Anine’s pure face and large eyes irresistibly rose before him. 
Poor Mme. de Guionic! and he pitied his own past, his 
youth, the disappeared Empire. He pitied himself such as 
he had been — a man of this downfall, a man of this disaster. 
Ah, to retrieve what was lost, if there was still time to do it ! 
What a lesson! what a lesson! 

He had drawn the opal ring from his finger. It sparkled 
in the^ dying day, like a reflection of beauty, youth, pleasure ; 
he examined the crack which crossed it for a moment, and 
suspending it, without regret, as a farewell to a whole past 
which would never return, he let it fall into the Moselle. 


PAET V. 


CHAPTER I. 

That evening at the Ban Saint-Martin, in Mme. Guim- 
bail’s small house, Du Breuil was thinking. A wretched 
candle was burning on the mantelpiece. The mirror was 
dusty, the room was in disorder; the leaf of the calendar 
still marked September 20th. Everything had an air of 
negligence and abandonment. 

May I come in ? ” said a voice. 

“You, Restaud! You are not sleeping, then?^^ 

“ Impossible.” 

His forehead was marked by a furrow, his mouth was 
drawn in. He took a few steps across the room, stopped 
before the calendar, and tried to smile. 

“ Hot in advance.” 

“ I no longer have the courage to count the days.” And 
Du Breuil looked at the ephemerides. “ September 20th, 
anniversary of the Alma. A splendid victory ! ” 

Detaching the leaves one by one until September 23rd 
appeared very clear upon the block of clean paper, he sent 
the crumpled scraps of paper behind a piece of furniture 
with a fillip of his thumb. Restaud watched him doing it 
with grave attention. 

“ I don’t bother you ? ” 

Du Breuil affectionately placed his two hands upon his 
shoulders to seat him in an armchair. 

“ My dear Restaud, I share your distress. If you had 
not come I should have hunted you up.” 

He sought for some tobacco, and discovered two cigars. 
Restaud refused. 

“ I take no pleasure in smoking, or in anything. Do 
you eat? As for me, I cannot swallow a mouthful. I’m 

273 


274 


THE DISASTER. 


thirsty only.” And, foreseeing an offer: ‘^No, no; I don’t 
want to drink. It’s a nervous state — one’s throat is dry, 
and then a constriction of anguish, a bitterness of bile and 
gall. . . . Come, I’m bothering you. I’ll be off.” 

Du Breuil said: 

“ We are very unfortunate. ... We must admit that 
things look bad.” 

Restaud rested his feverish forehead on his hand. His 
lassitude replied for him. 

“ I went through the bivouacs to-day,” said Du Breuil at 
last. “ In what a state of idleness and ennui they are allow- 
ing our poor soldiers to wallow! The horses fill one with 
pity.” 

He gave heartrending details. This hateful immobility 
was relaxing all moral elasticity. Ho exercises, reviews never, 
nothing which kept military sentiments alive, whilst with 
the Prussians there was nothing but work, manoeuvres, and 
parades. What had they done since September 1st? Hoth- 
ing — insignificant operations, simple foraging expeditions, 
which had been successful at Magny-sur-Seille and at Lau- 
vallier, unsuccessful at Vany. . . . Behind its intrenchments 
the inactive army, nourished on coarse bread and poor horse- 
flesh, was becoming enfeebled. The horses, reduced to crop- 
ping the last blades of grass, vine-shoots, and branchlets of 
the poplars, became skeletons. Many fell attached to their 
halters; others, conducted to the watering-place, fell down 
upon the road to rise no more. The spectacle of the camps, 
in this country shorn by scythes, as bare as a tomb, contami- 
nated by putrid miasmata around large ditches excavated 
on the front lines of the camps, was heartrending. 

The spectacle in the town was as sad, continued Du 
Breuil. The ambulances were a mass of sores, gangrenes, 
typhus, and dysentery. The tents and the magazines were 
infected; the patients froze there at night. The absence of 
salt made scurvy to be feared, and in Metz, a hospital of 
pain and death, the soldiers and officers were thronging, not- 
withstanding the interdictions. . . . Hustling sentries and 
gendarmes, the troops were pillaging the bakers’ shops. The 
officers bought provisions at any price; the inhabitants com- 
plained of the rise in prices. He had surprised Massoli bar- 
gaining for twenty-five pots of preserves. Frisch, ordered 
to get some salt, had paid twenty francs a pound. A com- 


THE DISASTER. 275 

mander of an army corps had paid three hundred francs 
for a truffled pullet. 

“ Much good may it do him ! ” said Eestaud. “ Every- 
body cannot make such purchases . . . and wouldn’t want 
to ! ” He added : “ Much to my sorrow, I have sold one of 
my horses.” 

Offlcers’ thoroughbreds, humble troop horses, a Colonel’s 
or a trumpeter’s horse — for all animals the butchery con- 
tractor gave the same ridiculous sum, two hundred and thirty 
francs each. They led them by droves to the lie Chambiere, 
and every day two hundred and fifty fell, the frontal bone 
crushed by a blacksmith’s hammer. The number of animals 
to be killed exceeded the needs of the provision administra- 
tion owing to their being unable to feed them. The surplus 
was handed over to the Metz municipality, and to the com- 
munes in the suburbs. 

“I have sold Guillaume,” said Du Breuil. 

In spite of care, Cydalise was growing thin. She had 
been ill, having eaten some beech-tree leaves, gathered by 
Jubault, who was replacing Frisch that particular morning. 
Unwholesome trees had, however, been mentioned in orders 
from headquarters. 

“To think that at this hour,” murmured Eestaud with 
rage, “ the Prussians may be entering Paris ! ” 

He clenched his fist; his mother and two sisters lived in 
the Eue de Vaugirard. Paris ! At this word a sudden vision 
passed before Du Breuil. “ Le Dernier J our de Corinthe ” 
appeared before him, Tony Eobert-Eleury’s large picture, 
which he had admired at the Salon with Mme. de Guionic. 
To an astonishing degree she even resembled that kneeling 
woman in the foreground who, uncovering her throat, was 
watching, fascinated with terror in the midst of her dis- 
mayed companions, the entry of the Consul Mummius and 
his barbarian legions; murder, pillage, fire, the sale by auc- 
tion of captives, all the horror of a people a prey to the con- 
queror . . . “Le Dernier Jour de Paris! ”... A heavy sor- 
row seized him. Paris, with its splendours, its museums, the 
beauty of its women, the grace of its wit — Paris in the 
brutal hands of the enemy! Ho; such a city would not let 
itself be violated in that manner! . . . But to organize re- 
sistance there, a prompt will, energetic men, were necessary. 
How, at that hour, what elements of trouble were perhaps 


276 


THE DISASTER. 


fermenting? The Revolution, pessimists announced, was 
overthrowing everything. At Lyons, Marseilles, Bordeaux, 
arose, in the midst of pikes, the red Republic, a Phrygian 
cap upon her head. Strange rumours — certainly he did not 
believe in them, but what a state of enervation in the long- 
run ! — ^had it that P ranee was in the midst of fire and blood. 
Was there a government there? Was it still in existence? 
Marquis was repeating to everybody that Frederick Charles 
had just been proclaimed Emperor of the French, that he 
would adopt the Prince Imperial, and that Prussia would 
give them the Rhenish provinces as an accession gift. 
Comte de Cussac heard from a good source of the probable 
restoration of the Orleans dynasty. 

Would Paris hold out? That was the great question. 
. . . And no one dared to hope it. Restaud doubted, Du 
Breuil doubted; under the frivolous exterior, under the dis- 
play of luxury and pleasure of the capital, they could not 
perceive intense beating of the heart, marvellous reservoirs 
of energy. Besides, the unanimous opinion infiuenced them. 
Barrus alone — but people had shrugged their shoulders — had 
afiirmed that Paris would face everything — siege and bom- 
bardment — before surrendering. 

There were mental reservations at the bottom of men’s 
souls. Grown up, grown old for the past eighteen years 
under the imperial rule, these innumerable soldiers of the 
Army of the Rhine lived in a legend of glory, thought and 
refiected little, accomplished their duty with blunted punc- 
tuality. With what apprehensions, what doubts, must they 
not receive the accession of a new power? If those of ad- 
vanced opinions and the clear-sighted saluted the dawn of 
the Republic, the majority, who remained imperialist by 
habit more than by fidelity, deplored the situation ; and even 
those who blamed the faults of the regime would have con- 
tributed, without doubt, to its restoration, if only it did not 
cost civil war. Du Breuil himself considered the downfall 
of the Empire as irrevocable. The future was troubled. But, 
free from all political considerations, even above men, the 
idea of France stood out in relief before his eyes above every- 
thing else. 

In the meantime, there was no news of the Government 
of the National Defence. How was it that none of its emis- 
saries reached Metz? How was it that Bazaine, on his side. 


THE DISASTER. 


277 


had not been able to place himself in communication? Yet 
Charlys and Major Samuel, the officers charged with the in- 
formation department, had sure men at their disposal. The 
Marshal used none of them, and discouraged good inten- 
tions. Every day, men of the district, or escaped prisoners, 
slipped by the Gorze weir, and threw themselves into the 
midst of the vines. The arrival of a Lieutenant, who had 
entered by the aqueduct, only drew from the Marshal this 
reflection : “ I had ordered, however, that this conduit was to 
be blown up.” 

It was a strange thing, Du Breuil called to mind, that 
the Marshal solicited information from the enemy, to whose 
interest it was to mislead him. On September 16 th, he sent 
Colonel Boyer, his Aide-de-camp, to the German headquar- 
ters. Prince Frederick Charles was absent. Boyer returned 
to the outposts on the following day, and insisted upon being 
received. The Prince’s reply, which arrived in the evening, 
had conflrmed the capitulation of Sedan on every point; 
the German armies were before Paris. Frederick Charles 
said he was authorized to make any communication which 
the Marshal desired. A fragment of a newspaper, containing 
the names of the members of the Government of the National 
Defence, and a few decrees drawn up and signed by them, 
accompanied this letter. The Prince remarked that the Re- 
public, having sprung into being at the Hotel de Ville, and 
not at the Corps Legislatif, was unrecognised by part of 
France, as well as by the monarchical powers. 

“ I have no prejudice for or against,” said Restaud. “ I 
will acclaim the Republic if it helps us to drive out the 
Prussians. Rather than sign a shameful peace, we ought to 
struggle to the end — conquer or die ! ” 

^^Well thought!” sighed Du Breuil. “Why cannot they 
hear you in Bazaine’s cabinet ? ” 

He stretched out his arm in that direction. It was a 
closed and silent place. An air of mystery had hovered 
around it for some time. The coming and going of German 
officers sent to parley had attracted attention. Something 
was being hatched which, even to those who saw nothing 
equivocal or suspicious, remained clandestine. 

Restaud was silent, so as not to express any judgment. 
Du Breuil said: 

“No, no! The Marshal does not ignore the feelings of 


278 ' 


THE DISASTER. 


the army, yours and mine. If the great chiefs, if those who 
have authority, do not make him hear the truth loud enough, 
the humble ones, the anonymous crowd has spoken, speaks 
every day. The Marshal receives and reads all the unsigned 
letters. They adjure him to attempt the honour of arms; 
beg him to enter, he and his generals, into communion with 
the army which suffers without complaint, and which obeys 
while champing its bit. You read, Restaud, the splendid 
letter which one of ours (Charlys, it is believed) sent to 
Bazaine a month ago ? Since then ” — ^he lowered his voice 
— “ the tone of respect has changed. Imperious, even insult- 
ing, summonses recall him to those duties which he has for- 
gotten.” 

“ I want to hope,” said Restaud. “We must. What will 
become of us without faith ? ” 

“Faith!” Du Breuil looked at him with bitter pity. 
“ Come, politics is a miserable thing. ... Is it necessary 
that personal ambition should lessen the feeling of honour 
in certain souls? Ought Bazaine to ask Prince Frederick 
Charles for information? Ought he to lend a complaisant 
ear to these disastrous pieces of news which they have an 
interest in making him believe ? . . . There is another thing : 
you have read these copies of the Figaro and the Moniteur 
de Reims. The Prussian Government is only disposed to 
treat with the Emperor, the Empress Regent, or with the 
Marshal, who holds his command from the Emperor. A big 
but an enticing hook; who knows if he isn’t going to 
take it ? ” 

“ We are a force,” said Restaud hesitatingly. “ They can 
treat with us.” 

“Yes, but at what price? Shall we be the restorers of a 
fallen regime? Pretorians, then? After having fired on 
Prussians, shall we open fire with our mitrailleuses upon 
Frenchmen ? Are we going to re-establish order in the blood 
of our country, so torn and so unfortunate? . . . The army 
is not a political instrument in the hands of the ambitious. 
We must only serve France. Let us look the truth in the 
face. Our inaction is leading us to the abyss.” He added 
ironically: “Ah, the Marshal’s vacillations! Was it not his 
first thought to recognise the new Government? Immedi- 
ately they scratch out the words imperial, empereur, on the 
promotion forms, and those for the Legion of Honour. They 


THE DISASTER. 


279 


order new characters at the printers’! . . . Since then they 
have returned to the old ones.” 

“ But the Marshal is right,” said Restaud. “We are not 
released from our oath.” 

“ Ah, only let us keep it until the end ! May Bazaine be 
inspired by the example of Fabert, upon the base of whose 
statue on the Place de I’Hotel de Ville are these proud words: 
‘ If, to prevent a fort which the King has entrusted to me 
from falling into the hands of the enemy, it was necessary 
for me to place myself, my family, and all that is mine, into 
the breach, I should not hesitate a moment to do it.’ ” 

A silence followed in the midst of deep emotion. Restaud 
at last said: 

“ There are bitter hours in our profession. The power- 
lessness of the soldier has need to be passive; it is not re- 
signed. What abnegation, what force of renunciation, is 
necessary to stifle the voice of his conscience ! ” 

“You admit it, then — you, the man of duty?” 

“Yes; it is true our duty is at times difficult.” 

Du Breuil added : 

“ It is nothing when one knows it. But if one day we 
seek for it ? ” 

“ I shall never know but one duty — passive obedience.” 

And Du Breuil thought he again could see Lacoste, so 
simple and so great. He objected: 

“ Until the end, whatever happens ? ” 

“ Until the end,” said Restaud. 

But anguish discomposed his features; a great struggle 
was visibly going on within him. 

“ So,” concluded Du Breuil, choosing his words because 
he felt the importance of what they were saying, “ those who 
consider that things cannot last thus, that an incapable or 
ambitious chief ought to be replaced . . .” 

D’Avol’s cutting voice vibrated in his ears: 

“ There are older Marshals 1 ” 

Restaud stopped him’: 

“ Do not speak to me of the insubordinates, of rebels 1 If 
they were a hundred times right, if I myself thought as they 
did, if my brother were in the crowd, I would shoot them at 
the first act of insubordination. If anarchy dissolves the 
army, what will become of us? Discipline, Du Breuil — 
recollect that terrible and magnificent word written on the 
19 


280 


THE DISASTER. 


first page of the Service Interieur: ‘ Discipline, the principal 
force of armies.’ ” 

He looked him in the face with proud conviction, which, 
coming from the heart, went straight to his. Du Breuil, 
touched, said: 

You are right, my friend.” 

A pale fire shone from Restaud’s face, his eyes took an 
expression of inexpressible nobility. 

“ You have never seriously doubted. A man like you can- 
not doubt. It is for others to guard themselves against the 
temptations of pride.” 

Pride? Why this word? How it exactly cut D’Avol, 
whom Restaud, however, did not know. Yes; noble pride, 
certainly, but incompatible with the soldier’s renunciation. 
. . . “ Discipline, the principal force of armies ! ” 

Come,” said Restaud, “we must try to sleep. Courage!” 

“ Good-night, friend.” 

And their hands clasped with a great impulse of affection 
and esteem. Restaud left ; Du Breuil felt more alone, sadder. 
Why had they not breathed a word of that mysterious per- 
sonage who had come in the afternoon to find Bazaine? . . . 
After all, Restaud, who had been absent since noon, and who 
spoke little, might be ignorant of the event of the day: that 
unknown man in civil dress who had been brought by an 
officer of General de Cissey in the wagonette used by the 
officers sent to parley. Introduced into the Marshal’s pres- 
ence, he had conversed for a long time with him, had stated 
he came from Hastings, where the Empress was residing. 
They knew nothing more of him. 

How was it they had not spoken of that? Bah! what 
was the good? What was the use of always criticising? . . . 
He listened. 

A little melody sounded in the distance. ... In order 
to be more certain, he opened the window. Yes; he had 
heard correctly. Who, then, was amusing himself at that 
hour by playing the flute ? It flowed like an ironical and sad 
streamlet of water. It modulated no particular air, and re- 
called all known tunes. The musician improvised as he 
recollected. And this shrill and solitary wail had a strange 
effect, rising in the great silence above the Ban Saint- 
Martin, ascending into the night impregnated with the slum- 
ber of the army, above confused dreams and heavy night- 


THE DISASTER. 


281 


mares. The feeble sound, so feeble, only a breath, became 
annoying in the long-run like the buzzing of an insect. 
Puzzled, Du Breuil noieslessly crept downstairs and walked 
round the house. The noise came from the stable; a ray 
of light from a lantern lit up the face of Jubault. Was the 
little fauhourien, his short reed to his lips, killing his home- 
sickness? Was he thinking of some amour of the harrier e9 
. . . He was warbling with so good a heart that Du Breuil 
refrained from interrupting the song by a blow upon the 
door with his fist. When he had remounted to his bedroom, 
he still heard in the distance the strange little voice. In its 
tenuity there was something touching, a lightness which 
seemed to mock. With a smack of vulgarity in it; it re- 
peated over and over again an air under which Du Breuil, 
by having heard Jubault hum it, guessed the words; 

“ Malbrougli s’en va t’en guerre, 

Dans une bouteille ! . . . 

Mais il en reviendra dans un panier . . . 

Dans un panier perce !” 

In the afternoon of the next day, September 24th, the 
return of the mysterious personage put the staffs of the Ban 
Saint-Martin into a state of anxiety. There was the busy 
bearing of chiefs, questioning looks, whispered confidences; 
on every face disquietude and curiosity. Truly, the un- 
known kept souls in suspense, and comments crossed and 
contradicted each other. To screen him from the inquisitive, 
the Marshal had ordered the doors of his house to be closed. 

“ Some spy,” said Floppe. “ One has only to see whence 
he comes. Without any doubt, he is a Prussian agent. And, 
between parentheses, I may say this gentleman entered here 
as though into an inn. Why didn’t they stop him at the out- 
posts until Bazaine had decided to receive him or not ? But 
the Marshal was doubtless in too great a hurry to wait.” 

“ You see evil everywhere,” said Massoli. “ You know 
perfectly well that this gentleman comes to take back the 
Luxemburg doctors we have in Metz to their own country.” 

As Floppe opened wide his eyes, Massoli stated precisely: 

“ Certainly, the seven or eight Luxemburgers who came 
at the opening of the war to nurse the wounded. . . .” (Du 
Breuil saw again one of them, the gorilla of Borny and of 
the Saint-Clement ambulance; too striking a figure for him 
to forget it. . . .) “ These doctors form a part of the In- 


282 


THE DISASTER. 


ternational Association of Geneva; the blockade troubles 
them; they have asked the Marshal to send them home. Up 
to the present they have feared they would divulge what 
they have seen in our lines. This gentleman, who is their 
chief, simply comes to fetch them, in accord with General 
von Stiehle.” 

“Simply!” jeered IToppe. “Is it for that purpose that 
he has remained closeted for hours with the Marshal, so that 
yesterday evening at eleven o’clock they still talked ? ” 

“And the proof,” said Francastel, throwing himself into 
the discussion like a giddy-brains, “ is that when this indi- 
vidual wished to enter the enemy’s lines it was too late; our 
main-guard trumpet sounded in vain. And what will aston- 
ish you is the fact that, having left Moulins, where he must 
have slept, at five o’clock this morning, our man had returned 
from the Germans at noon. On the way he related in a per- 
emptory tone to Arnous-Riviere, the officer charged with the 
parley department, a heap of things — that he is sent by the 
Empress, that he brings a letter from her. He comes to ask 
Bazaine to support the cause of the Regency with his army; 
Canrobert and Bourbaki are to be asked to co-operate in this 
restoration.” 

“ That is too much,” murmured Restaud incredulously. 
“ And the name of this diplomatist ? ” 

“ You don’t know it? ” asked Francastel. He enjoyed for 
a moment the general curiosity, and then said : “ His name 
is Regnier.” 

A deception followed : this name told them nothing. They 
constructed a thousand suppositions, based on homonyms. 
Laune had heard much talk formerly of a Regnier, who was 
a kind of meddlesome adventurer mixed up in the 1848 
Revolution, and who launched unfortunate industries. . . . 
Was this the same man? That appeared to him doubtful. 
What was this personage of the third order doing in the 
midst of such great interests? 

Marquis, always informed, was saying, with an air of 
great mystery: 

“ He is an agent of the Provisional Government, skilfully 
disguised as a member of the International! He brings 
news. The Emperor is not a prisoner. He is moving to- 
wards Denmark, which is declaring for us.” 

“ Ho, no, you’re not in it, dear friend ! ” 


THE DISASTER. 


283 


And Floppe, in the midst of laughter, suggested that 
the unknown one only brought some bottles of black dye 
for Massoli’s hair. He had need of them, because it was 
turning to verdigris. Apparently the reserve stock of the 
Metz hairdressers had been exhausted. . . . Massoli was ap- 
proaching, so he became silent. 

Francastel continued: 

“ In any case, he isn’t a subaltern agent. The Marshal 
would not personally trouble himself to go and find Can- 
robert and Bourbaki ! ” 

Bazaine had, in fact, after consulting with the unknown, 
mounted on horseback. Du Breuil was perplexed. The 
emissary appeared to him still more suspicious when Charlys 
suddenly said to him: 

“ Where, then, is Laune ? ” And, as if he could not re- 
main silent longer, he decided to confide in him, Du Breuil. 
“ Do you know what I have just heard from Colonel Boyer? 
Invited by the Marshal to sleep in the French camp yester- 
day evening, Begnier had the cheek to reply: ‘ No, I don’t 
want to remain here, where there is only bad horseflesh broth. 
I prefer going to Ars, where there is good beef broth.’ Good 
beef broth with Princn Frederick Charles! ... I should 
have shown him out with a horse-whipping ! ” 

Laune came up. A bilious fever was making his eyelids 
brown, and turning his face yellow. 

“ And I should have had him hanged as a spy 1 Don’t 
they say that the Marshal ” 

He bit his lips and kept silent. 

Anxiety increased when they learnt that Bazaine, who 
had found neither Canrobert nor Bourbaki at their head- 
quarters, had urgently sent for them, and when they saw the 
chief officers arrive one after the other. Leboeuf had made 
a short appearance about four o’clock, but, feeling a sense 
of uneasiness at the silence which had set in, he immediately 
withdrew. The doors, carefully guarded by Bazaine’s officers, 
all steeped in mystery, were again closed behind Canrobert 
and Bourbaki. 

“ What are they up to inside ? ” Floppe was murmuring. 
“ It isn’t fair, gentlemen. The Marshal’s staff alone is in the 
know. They are keeping us in quarantine.” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself, Floppe. I know everything,” 
declared Francastel. This Regnier is an imperialist agent. 


284 


THE DISASTER. 


France is a prey to anarchy, and a restoration may alone 
save the country.” 

“ Admitting that he accepts the remedy ! ” 

“ But a regency of the Empress with the Prince Imperial, 
and Bazaine as Grand Constable, offers nothing inadmis- 
sible,” improved Francastel. 

Massoli triumphed. 

“ What was I saying to you, gentlemen, with your mania 
for finding noon at two o’clock? . . . The only question is 
that of sending back the Luxemburg doctors to their own 
country. The Marshal has told them to assemble at the Ban 
Saint-Martin. I have just spoken to one of them; you know, 
the one who is so ugly, and who grimaces like this.” 

Massoli, to imitate him, became hideous. “ The gorilla ! ” 
thought Du Breuil. This recollection aroused in him a kind 
of superstitious uneasiness, a repugnance, as though he had 
retained the fear of seeing bent over him on a day of battle, 
in some solitary ambulance, the hairy face, the blue eyes, of 
this man, armed, as at Borny, with forceps and scissors, red 
with having been used in quivering flesh. . . . 

There was no doubt, in fact, that the negotiator had come 
to take back the Luxemburg doctors to their own country. 
With the dying evening they saw them arrive — almost all 
young, smiling, happy to leave. The oldest had just received 
a brevet of the Legion of Honour, and the gorilla was wear- 
ing a kepi with the Cross of Geneva, which Regnier had 
asked for him. One after the other they disappeared into the 
Marshal’s house. However, part of the truth transpired, in 
spite of the silence which was kept — Bazaine was negotiat- 
ing, but with what object, with what idea? . . . Might was 
gathering. Bourbaki left, going towards his headquarters 
at Plappeville. The conference was, then, concluded? Mo; 
he returned shortly afterwards. The door was opened and 
closed again. And the mysterious envoy, the chattering and 
peremptory man whom Arnous-Riviere had depicted, still 
remained closeted with the Marshal. Why did he not leave 
with his Luxemburg doctors? It was because he was din- 
ing with Bazaine and Bourbaki. At nightfall Captain 
Arnous-Riviere conducted Regnier back again in his wagon- 
ette, in company with a man wearing a kepi, upon which 
was a Geneva Cross, whom he did not know. The doctors 
followed in another carriage. 


THE DISASTER. 


285 


That night an aurora borealis filled the northern sky 
with an inunense red light, crossed with white rays and lu- 
minous brush-lights. Du Breuil could not sleep. Jubault^s 
little flute sounded shrill in his ears with the persistence of a 
mosquito until a very late hour. In the morning, great was 
the stupor upon learning that Bourbaki had left for Hast- 
ings. The Marshal had lent him his own civilian clothes, 
even to his braces. Charlys, knowing Du Breuil to be very 
trustworthy, related to him what he knew. The Empress, 
Begnier had affirmed, asked for Canrobert or Bourbaki. And 
the former refusing to leave Metz, the latter had consented, 
but on certain conditions: he asked for a written order, and 
the promise that the Guard should not be brought into action 
during his absence. . . . The object of this mission? To 
bring the Sovereign back to Metz by proclaiming her Regent, 
and to treat with the enemy? Or else would the Metz army, 
transported to a neutralized zone of the territory, protect 
the convocation of the Corps Legislatif and the Senate, such 
as they were constituted during the last session, and would 
the two Chambers proclaim a regular Government, Prussia 
engaging to recognise it, and the army to re-establish it? 
. . . What would become under that arrangement of the Pro- 
visional Government, so decided to fight, so eager for resist- 
ance, and, whether one liked it or not, so ardent in heart, 
so thoroughly French? 

To treat with the enemy was an expedient which revolted 
Charlys. Alone the fate of arms, not the hazard of political 
negotiations, had a chance, in the opinion of all patriotic 
officers, of enlarging the prison in which they were etiolating. 
But time was pressing: around them was a solidly in- 
trenched army riveting the circle. And in the fort they only 
had enough to last out until October 18 th. Each day was 
using up their forces, dismounting horsemen and batteries, 
ruining the spirit of the troops. 

“ Whither are we going ? ” said Charlys, with a shrug of 
his shoulders, which still more lengthened out his thin body. 

And everybody was saying that ; everybody who was pass- 
ing was quarrelling, and in a state of deep rage. It seemed 
as though the army, from the obscurest to the most illustri- 
ous, stricken by a great dizziness, contemplated itself with 
sightless eyes, powerlessly sinking into the abyss, like earth 
which slowly settles. 


286 


THE DISASTER. 


That day, which was a Sunday, the departure of General 
Bourbaki, and his replacement at the head of the Guard by 
General Desvaux, provided matter for all conversations. The 
stupor of General Boisjol and the emotion of Major Car- 
rouge were at their height. Others — ^Massoli, Erancastel — 
were conversing about a list of decorations which had been 
signed on the previous day; their eyes were sparkling with 
desire and envy. This mean egoism under such circum- 
stances rather sickened Du Breuil. The weather was fine. 
For a long time he contemplated from his window the vast 
plain of the Ban Saint-Martin, dust or lake of mud alter- 
nately. Between a triple zone of felled trees, it displayed its 
naked earth, its dismal desolation. Although he was free 
that day, he had not the heart to go to see the Bersheims. 
He had a bitter taste in his mouth, and his limbs were tired. 
He was eaten up with ennui and a nameless disgust. He 
looked at the calendar. The ephemerides bore the date Sep- 
tember 25th, 1799: General Massena overcomes Korsakov’s 
Russians at Zurich! 

Massena! He thought of the admirable siege of Genoa, 
which the Metz newspapers, all the more exalted as the mili- 
tary censor was cutting, suppressing their articles, making 
a point, they had said, of paralyzing their patriotism, had 
called to mind the other day. Massena, the hero of Genoa, 
of Rivoli, of Eckmiihl, of Aspern. . . . Why had they not 
a similar man? 

On Monday Bersheim arrived at headquarters. The ex- 
cellent man was very excited. He took Du Breuil aside. 

“ Are you aware of the emotion in the town, my friend ? 
Do you know a large number of the inhabitants are drawing 
up a petition to ask 'the Marshal to make a sortie, and to 
open the campaign? By remaining here, he is leading us 
to our ruin. . . . Let him surrender, if he dares, with an 
army of a hundred and sixty thousand men, but let him first 
get away from Metz, and leave us to defend ourselves ! We 
have provisions, a sufiicient garrison, and, be sure of it, 
Bazaine gone, Cofiinieres will do his duty.” 

In the presence of Du Breuil’s darkened face, he made an 
affectionate gesture. 

“ Metz does not suspect the army, friend ! The invasion 
of our shops and our markets by officers and soldiers we 
would willingly support. What is impoverishment to us? 


THE DISASTER. 


287 


We will face the siege, if necessary; the only thing we ask 
is to fight like Strasburg, like Toul, like so many other towns 
which do their duty 1 ” 

“ Toul has just capitulated,” said Du Breuil. 

“ At least after resistance,” replied Bersheim. “ Stras- 
burg, the surrender of which the Marshal is in too great a 
hurry to announce, still. holds out. But here, what are we 
doing? What are we waiting for? Eamine? The wheat of 
Metz, which ought to have been reserved for man’s nourish- 
ment, has been bought, carried ofi by the military adminis- 
tration. The army horses are eating it. There is pillage 
and waste, and while provisions are running low in a terri- 
fying way, they have done nothing, or almost nothing, to 
procure others within the circle itself of the investment. Is 
not such sluggishness shameful ? ” 

Be-echoing the feelings of the town, he complained bit- 
terly of the Governor, of his wilfulness in constituting nei- 
ther the Council of Defence nor the Victualling Commission. 
The Municipal Council was occupied with the food question 
for the first time on September 14th, and on the 15th a decree 
from Coffinieres had ordered returns to be made out in re- 
gard to wheat and flour in Metz, and the fixing of the price 
of these commodities, in addition to that of horseflesh. 
They were wise measures, but insufficient, and besides that 
were badly executed. The evil continued until the month 
of August, when the Governor had refused to allow the re- 
sources of the neighbouring villages to flow into Metz, for 
fear of alarming the inhabitants. 

“ And Bourbaki ? Is he really going to bring back to us 
the Empress and the Prince Imperial? ... I conceive that 
that seduces some Marshals who owe everything to the Em- 
pire, but one must count with the Republican population of 
Metz — Metz which they treat as though it did not exist. 
... Will not some man rise up, then, with the courage to 
speak plainly to the Marshal ? ” 

Du Breuil smiled a melancholy smile. 

At least Metz,” said Bersheim forcibly, “ will know how 
to make itself heard by the voice of its Municipal Council 
and Mayor. I certify that. Besides, all the general or supe- 
rior officers do not participate in this theory of passive re- 
nunciation. Those who want to recall Bazaine to his duty 
are numerous. Obedience to the chief who leads them 


288 


THE DISASTER. 


against the enemy, refusal to obey the chief who wishes to 
surrender them, that is what I hear professed at my house 
by a few men of heart— General Boisjol, Barrus, D’Avol, 
Courrage. . . 

“ I cannot discuss that,” said Du Breuil. 

Bersheim made a gesture expressive of helplessness. 

“ But whither are we going ? What are they doing ? 
What does the Marshal want ? ” 

Du Breuil looked at him sorrowfully. What could he 
know — he, one of the lowest — of the projects of the man 
w^ho commanded the fate of two hundred thousand soldiers 
and citizens, of the man with the heavy face, puffed-out eye- 
lids and impenetrable look, who, disguising his grandeur 
under a face or a mask of simplicity, confined, intrenched 
himself behind the railings of his park and the walls of his 
house, who never appeared in the town, who was unknown in 
the hospitals and ambulances, who was hidden among his 
little court of officers in the midst of suspicious whisperings 
and secret meetings? 

Time is passing by,” said Bersheim bitterly. What 
have they done during the last month? Where shall we be 
in a month’s time ? ” 

One month ago it was the sham sortie of Grimont under . 
the torrential storm. What ground they had gone over, and 
on what a slope! Where were the illusions, the hopes which 
persisted then? . . . Bersheim continued: 

“ They even discourage those who attempt anything. An 
engineer offered to cast war projectiles; the artillery man- 
agement showed him to the door. One of my friends, M. 
Cordier, promised one thousand francs to anyone who would 
take a letter to Paris and bring back the answer. General 
Coffinieres, after having severely asked him on what author- 
ity he meddled in these matters, said he intended to retain 
the most authority in the execution of the project. M. Cor- 
dier introduced him to some trustworthy emissaries. Not 
one of them has been employed.” He returned to the ques- 
tion of Bourbaki. This departure was a veritable obsession. 
“To go away thus, disguised and at night, in the midst of 
doctors I These doctors were not more than seven, and they 
affirm that the safe-conduct brought by Kegnier consisted of 
nine persons. The German headquarters foresaw, then, 
Bourbaki’s departure ? How suspicious all that is I ” 


THE DISASTER. 


289 


You are very pessimistic,” said Du Breuil, in a tone of 
friendly reproach. It seemed to him that Bersheim was 
talking like a man who has been influenced. If he listened 
to that sectarian Barrus, who was always in revolt, or to 
D’ Avol, who was so bitter ! . . . He felt more unhappy when 
he was left alone. He gave a hearty welcome, however, to 
young Chartrain, who, still weak, had come to thank him 
for his kindness. He even read a letter which the little 
quartermaster had asked him to send to his father, M. Char- 
train, Conseiller d’Etat, so as to make sure it contained no 
irregularities. The officers who were sent to parley con- 
sented, in a spirit of surprising tolerance, to an exchange of 
private letters, which were submitted to the censor in the 
two camps. The pleasure of his good action lasted only a 
short time; spleen was lying in wait for him. 


CHAPTER II. 

Happily, a diversion occurred the next day, that of the 
Peltre engagement. Major Mourgues dared to declare that 
the plan of attack was impracticable. The scepticism of the 
officers of Bazaine’s staff was astonishing! If one were to 
believe them, the soldier did not wish to march any more ; to 
fight only irritated the enemy, who immediately took venge- 
ance on the villages. What was the good of actions de detail, 
when the great fight was lost? Why not treat for peace, 
and take their revenge later? . . . One should have heard 
little Mourgues’ Provengal accent, a blustering echo of the 
more discreet remarks of his chief. General Boyer, for Ba- 
zaine’s first Aide-de-camp was wearing the stars since yes- 
terday. “ Etats de Services?” jeered Floppe. ^^Des tas de 
Services ! ” The pun was a great success. Floppe was the 
hete noire of these gentlemen, and Mourgues took care not 
to speak so loud in his presence. But Floppe on the previous 
day had taken over the parley department, of the delicate 
duties of which Captain Arnous-Riviere had just been re- 
lieved, and which in the future the captains of the staff were 
in turn each day filling. 

Detonations from Fort Queuleu, about nine o’clock, re- 


290 


THE DISASTER. 


echoed in Du Breuil’s heart. Since he had heard the Saint- 
Quentin thundering forth at the time of his first parleying 
mission, he never listened to the loud voice of the forts with- 
out emotion. They had worked without interruption, and 
the forts were now strongly armed. He had wished to see 
them at work, left to themselves, helping Metz to defend 
herself alone. They were able to do it. 

The cannon was redoubling in violence. Du Breuil, feel- 
ing an irresistible desire to know, set off. At Fort Queuleu, 
where he knew some- oJficers, the situation was good. Gen- 
eral Lapasset, notwithstanding Mourgues, had conceived a 
bold coup de main, the capture of the Chateau de Mercy and 
Peltre. A protected locomotive, carrying a few determined 
men, would proceed in the meantime at full speed on Cour- 
celles-sur-Nied, couple to it the waggons containing the 
enemy’s provisions, and bring them back to Metz. M. Dietz, 
a skilful engineer of the Eastern Company, took charge of 
the manoeuvre. 

It was a beautiful day; the waters of the Seille sparkled 
in the midst of the devastation of the landscape. Du Breuil 
was commencing to ascend the Queuleu slope, which domi- 
nated the plain with its pointed steeple, when he perceived, 
a short distance away, some soldiers escorting German pris- 
oners. A bright-eyed Lieutenant, his face covered with dust, 
his hands blackened with powder, whom he questioned, said 
to him with volubility: 

“Victory, Major! The Chateau de Mercy finished at a 
mouthful ! Peltre was less easy, but we took it all the same 
d la fourchette! Isn’t that so, lads?” 

There were laughs among the soldiers, while the stiff 
German prisoners continued to advance with arrogant coun- 
tenances. A Captain added: 

“ Unfortunately, the protected locomotive was unable to 
get as far as Courcelles-sur-Hied, the enemy having been 
warned and cut the line. But we are bringing the traitor 
back. My men discovered him as he was escaping from a 
baker’s.” 

“ Look ! ” resumed the Lieutenant. “ There he is.” 

And, between two soldiers, Du Breuil saw pass a miser- 
able bundle, a wretch of a man with bound wrists, his face 
covered with spittle, and one eye hidden under cow-dung. 
To his profound astonishment, he recognised Gugl. 


THE DISASTER. 


291 


But I know him,” he murmured. 

The Jew raised his head. His eye, his polluted face, 
took an intense and frenzied expression. All the life which 
the miserable wretch still possessed issued forth from his 
skin. 

“ I am innocent,” he cried, in a heartrending voice, try- 
ing to escape from his keepers. “ See, the Machor knows 
me. I know him. I mountet for him a peautiful golt rink. 
I am an honest man, a good vater, everybody can say so. I 
swear it on the heads of my chiltren ! ” 

“Judas!” said a soldier. A German prisoner com- 
menced to laugh disdainfully. 

They dragged Gugl away. Du Breuil turned away his 
eyes. 

“ Are you sure ? ” he asked. 

“ Hot the slightest doubt,” said the Captain. “ He was 
selling brandy in the railway workshops ; he saw the prepara- 
tions, and early this morning he went to forewarn the 
enemy. He has confessed it. He will suffer for it ! ” 

A soldier was passing, holding by the legs a large red 
hare, which was bleeding. 

“Let’s have a look, Feitu!” 

The soldier proudly raised the animal. 

“ It came to die at my feet,” said the Captain. “ It re- 
ceived a plum during the fight. That will make splendid 
jugged hare 1 ” 

He gave a little childlike laugh, and rejoined the prison- 
ers’ convoy. A young soldier was running, behindhand, 
feverish, hilarious; he was talking aloud, shaking his hand, 
which was bandaged in a checked pocket-handkerchief. 

“ It don’t matter. I knocked the fat pig’s brains out.” 

He had so contented an air that Du Breuil felt a sadness 
from it. Gugl’s look, the terrible eagerness to live which 
was stamped on that discomposed face, left in him a feeling 
of pity mingled with disgust. Again he saw the cramped, 
dusty shop, the woman, the children almost albinos ; then the 
day upon which Gugl had brought the ring to him at the 
Hotel de I’Europe, and also the glass-topped box at Grimont, 
containing tobacco, rum, nougat. . . . He had done good 
“pisness” afterwards in baker’s white bread, which the Jew 
carried into the bivouacs and sold very dear. He then com- 
menced to traffic in brandy. That did not prevent him from 


292 


THE DISASTER. 


buying watches and jewelry. Gugl was all over the place. 
One day one saw him with the 6th corps at Saint-Eloy; the 
next with the 4th, at Lorry. The soldiers’ pleasantries and 
their brutality exercised over him a fascination mingled with 
horror. That monster beast, the army, attracted and re- 
pulsed him. But he always returned to it, so strong was the 
desire for gain. It was that, and also perhaps an inborn 
necessity to betray, which had lost him; having sold every- 
thing, he must in the end sell himself. Besides, being a 
Dresden Jew, he detested the French. All the same, Du 
Breuil would never have suspected him. And Metz was 
swarming with similar spies ! . . . Then he suddenly remem- 
bered the opal ring, recollected Borny, where he had believed 
in its witchcraft. It was, then, necessary that the stone 
should be fatal to someone. 

General Lapasset, whose hard face was aglow with pleas- 
ure, appeared. Behind him, on a bed of boughs, four sol- 
diers carried a fat pig crowned with leaves; an artilleryman 
was dragging a recalcitrant pink sow by the leg. Others 
were brandishing strings of fowls, loaves of bread stuck upon 
their bayonets. Further away, light-infantry men were lead- 
ing cows with swollen udders, oxen, sheep, and goats. A stout 
sapper, whose beard descended to his stomach, was clasping a 
lamb in his arms, casting over it a protecting look. Its 
mother, a limping sheep, was following, bleating. The joy, 
the pride of these honest fellows, was a pleasure to see, and a 
pleasure also were these animals doomed to the slaughter, 
which brought with them the odour of fields and stables, a 
sweetness of rustic peace in their slow walk, their vacant eyes, 
and their plaintive cries. Du Breuil noticed the long head of 
a sheep with closed eyes, and the slavering muzzle of a 
cow. The appearance of these droves appeared to him un- 
usual, for it was a long time since he had seen them. Alone 
the innumerable agonies of the horses glutted his eyes. 

He imagined he heard the Captain’s cheerful voice. 
That will make splendid jugged hare ! ” Yes, and suc- 
culent pots-au-feu and substantial roasts. A passing vision 
of smoking dishes came up before him, and he found himself 
suddenly once more at the Cafe Biche with D’Avol, on the 
night of the “ Marseillaise ” and the Opera. Again he saw 
the unctuous butler : “ Duckling a la Rouennaise ? Lamb 
cutlets ? ” Certainly, instead of horse steaks and a few pieces 


THE DISASTER. 


293 


of potatoes, he would have paid dearly for such a feast. But 
he thought of the miseries of the soldier. . . . 

What a privation it was to the troop to be without bread, 
savoury brown bread! At the Place there was only left a 
mouthful of spongy, juiceless paste, mixed with bran and 
other refuse. The supply of horseflesh, which was increased, 
did not make up for it. Tough and fibrous, it -was indi- 
gestible to the most robust stomachs. Worse still was the lack 
of salt, which was indispensable to the organism. Even in 
the town there was almost a total lack of it. Artificial fab- 
rications had only given very meagre results. They were 
utilizing the Bellecroix spring of salt water. Bodies of men 
went there for the necessary water for the soups, intermi- 
nable files of vehicles, loaded with barrels, were stationed 
there for hours; but the insufficiency of the output had not 
allowed of the crystallization by boiling of the immense 
quantities which were required. In the case of many this 
privation gave rise, to a keen, intolerable suffering. Officers 
had voraciously disputed over the salt, then the brine of 
Metz, and finally over a product which the chemists bap- 
tized with the name “ salted water.” The Bellecroix spring 
losing many of its alkaline properties owing to the great 
consumption of it, a doctor proposed to extract the precious 
matter from the tan-pits. His offer had been declined, so as 
not to injure, it was said, private interests. God only knows 
with what avidity the wretched soldiers tried to procure this 
vital salt. They had seen some begging for it at the houses ; 
others stole it; certain of them, to the detriment of their 
health, took saltpetre; many at the outposts would have 
braved rifle-shots to go and see if the salt-cellars and the 
salt-boxes on the walls in the farms still contained a few 
grains. 

‘^Du Breuil!” 

An officer of Erossard’s staff, with a large nose and long 
moustache, came up at a slow gallop, on a horse in excellent 
form. 

Laisne ? What are are you doing here ? ” 

They shook hands. Laisne said : 

“ Come for news. Half-success. However, the affair has 
shown the spirit of the troops. But if they want provisions 
it isnT there; it’s at Thionville that they must go seek 
them. . . .” 


294 


THE DISASTER. 


He spoke of a large convoy of biscuit and flour, affirmed 
that the Marshal knew of its existence, having been informed 
on the previous day, or two days before, by an emissary of 
Colonel Turnier. . . . Whence did he get these details? He 
added : 

“ But Bazaine doesn’t bother much about it. What he 
wants is to get out of his scrape, become the arbitrator of the 
destinies of the country. He thinks he is still in Mexico.” 

Du Breuil stroked the neck of the broad-backed Nor- 
mandy horse. 

“ What do you do to keep it in such good condition ? ” 

The Aide-de-camp, who lived in intimate relations with 
a Commander-in-Chief, whose table and stables passed for 
being well served, replied with pride: 

“ I feed it.” 

He returned to his idea. 

“ Marshal Bazaine is no enemy to a mild ambition. It’s 
a bad business when a petticoat is mixed up in it.” 

He recalled the' ascendancy exercised by Bazaine’s first 
wife, and her death — a case of poisoning, it was believed — 
which put an end to the vicissitudes of a mysterious love 
tragedy. The Marshal’s animosity against MacMahon arose 
from the fact that the latter, when Brigadier-General at 
Tlemcen, had refused to add a recommendatory note to a let- 
ter which Bazaine, then a Colonel, wrote to the Minister of 
War — a letter asking permission to marry this woman, a 
Spaniard of great beauty but lowly birth. 

“ A fine girl ! ” he said. “ I should trust the second less. 
She appears more complicated. These Mexicans have polit- 
ical ethics of their own.” 

He winked his eye. 

“ Apropos of women, our comrade Decherac doesn’t 
weary himself. I saw him the other day. They were driv- 
ing him in a carriage. A very pretty woman was screening 
him with her sunshade, and the husband was driving. De- 
cherac had the happiest air of the three. I shall ask him to 
introduce me as his successor.” 

And big Laisne, pulling at his moustache with an ex- 
pression which was partly serious and partly in jest, said: 

“ It is true, my dear fellow, only the wounded have time 
for flirtations. We others live the lives of cenobites. No 
more love! . . . The rare, suitable crinolines are for the 


THE DISASTER. 


295 


great chiefs; and as for those ladies you know about, they 
have too many customers.” 

Du Breuil understood to what miserable creatures, to what 
poor haunts of pleasure, Laisne alluded. He made a little 
grimace expressive of disgust. Since the commencement of 
the war, he was again beginning the apprenticeship of a 
manly and pure life, wholly devoted to intellectual labour 
and the expenditure of physical strength. But when he 
thought he had forgotten the exigencies of the heart and 
the flesh, images unexpectedly assailed him during sleepless- 
ness and in the darkness; they haunted him, more inco- 
herent, at the approach of sleep. Frail silhouettes passed in 
the crowd in the streets, or he called up thoughts of dis- 
creet amours. Mme. de Guionic appeared : he again saw the 
spots on her open-work stockings, her fresh, bare neck. Then 
the name of Bose Hoel sounded in his ears in the midst of 
a light clatter of glasses and plates. Suddenly he thought of 
the auburn-haired glove-shop assistant who, on the day of 
his departure, had beckoned to him with a smile. His tem- 
ples throbbed. Laisne growled: 

‘‘ It isn’t a convoy of provisions which they ought to hold 
in readiness for us at Thionville, but bazaars of captives, 
bevies of beautiful slaves as with the ancients. . . . Think of 
a hundred and sixty thousand men deprived of all opportuni- 
ties for love ! ” 

He uttered a somewhat coarse expression, and then, with 
a shrug of his shoulders, said : 

After all, I don’t care. My hostess is obliging. And 
yours ? ” 

Without waiting for the reply, he looked at his watch, 
and with an “ Au revoir ! ” set off at a slow gallop. 

Du Breuil followed him with his eyes. This tranquil as- 
surance, which so many brave but frivolous officers possessed, 
always caused him annoyance. How many thus lived from 
day to day, correctly carrying out their duty, consoled for 
public misfortunes by the consciousness that they did not 
contribute to them? The feeling of a higher fatality alle- 
viated that of their powerlessness. He envied these military 
philosophers, so numerous — he to whom this powerlessness 
was the most bitter heartsore. How many times had he not 
heard the imperious voices which prompted action and in- 
itiative in him, and repulsed them as suggestions of pride! 

20 


296 


THE DISASTER. 


Ah, if he were Bazaine! how he would break out, and then 
make for the open country, if necessary, to die! Then he 
thought that he only had his life to lose. Who knows what 
scruples, what vertigo, might paralyze him if he were the 
supreme chief of so many existences? . . . “No,” he re- 
peated to himself, “ this inaction is dishonourable. . . . 
Enough with pourparlers and suspicious negotiations. The 
fight, and, if necessary, death — the simple death of Lacoste, 
of Langlade, and of Poterin. Life is not so precious as 
honour ! ” 

Returning by the Sahlon plain, he saw a tumultuous 
gathering at the entrance to the village. Men with raised 
arms, and faces upon which were expressions of murderous 
madness, were crowding with yells and hoots around some 
soldiers and a gesticulating officer. Du Breuil made out 
Gugl bound to a tree — around him piles of fagots. His face 
was a mass of blood, and from his mouth, a large black hole, 
issued the convulsive yells of a stuck pig. Some children 
were executing a Caribee dance, and an enormous red-haired 
carter, the convoy driver of Sarrebriick and Gravelotte, the 
instinctive brute of popular affrays, was striking a light, 
crying : 

“ Let’s burn the spy I let’s burn the spy I ” 

The carter’s look met that of Du Breuil, who recognised 
him. Hustling women, who were like furies, the carter 
yelled : 

“To my aid, friends ! Let’s burn the vermin I ” 

But the officer to whom Gugl was entrusted — it was the 
Captain of jugged-hare fame — energetically protested. He 
swore in a voice of thunder, saying that the court-martial 
would decide, that they bothered him, and that he did not 
like brawling. 

“ Do you hear, man ? ” he declared to the carter, who 
with lowered head was already pushing himself forward. 

“ That the only obstacle ! ” sneered the brute. “ Here 
are people siding with the Prussians ! ” 

“ Say that again ! ” 

“ Yes,” vociferated the man. “ Here are people sid- 
ing . . .” 

^ The phrase stuck in his throat. The dry, thick-set Cap- 
tain had raised him under the arms, and, his breath cut short, 
the giant rolled in the dust. In the midst of the intimidated 


THE DISASTER. 


297 


but still raging crowd, the soldiers led, or, rather, carried 
away Gugl, who had fainted. 

In the evening the plain was ruddy with light. The 
foraging expedition of the 3rd corps had succeeded at Colom- 
bey; the 6th corps had captured Ladonchamps. In retalia- 
tion, the Prussians set fire to the Chateau de Mercy, Peltre, 
Colombey, and Petites-Tapes. The flames lighted up all 
parts of the horizon. Everyone with oppressed heart was 
present in thought at this return of the furious enemy, driv- 
ing out the inoffensive peasants, spreading savage destruc- 
tion, torch in hand. Mourgues, however, was triumphing, 
with an accent which had the savour of garlic. 

“ Fine progress weVe made ! All that for a few prisoners, 
a few beasts. . . 

However, newspapers seized on the Germans were inter- 
esting. Crumpled, stained with filth and hlood, they brought, 
in the ignorance in which they were living, the echo of out- 
side voices: Paris was holding out; bloody combats were 
fought under its walls; the National Defence was be- 
ing organized everywhere. Prussia was disposed to treat 
with Jules Favre, who had just gone to Ferrieres, where the 
enemy’s chief headquarters was established. Du Breuil 
again fell back into the circle of conjectures, doubts, and 
fears. Did not everything prove the necessity of war to the 
bitter end. Were they not deserving of better conditions by 
fatiguing the invaders? Would they resolve that Lorraine 
and Alsace, as they very loudly plumed themselves, would re- 
main their prey ? What was Bazaine waiting for ? 

Vague rumours of an attempt to make a sortie in the 
direction of Thionville were then spread about. Sub-Com- 
missary of Stores Gaffiot received an order to collect two 
days’ oats for all the horses of the army for October 1st. 
And Du Breuil heard from Charlys that the Marshal was 
impatiently awaiting the result of Begnier’s negotiations. 
Unfortunately, on September 29th, this fine plan, based on 
the dulusions of a boaster, or, worse still, on the manoeuvres 
of a spy, crumbled to the ground. An officer sent by Gen- 
eral von Stiehle to parley arrived at the Ban Saint-Martin. 
He handed the Marshal a letter from Bourbaki, dated from 
Hastings, and one from Prince Frederick Charles, who was 
surprised that Bourbaki asked to return to Metz. The Gen- 
eral could not, however, be in ignorance of the fact that. 


298 


THE DISASTER. 


if they made no opposition to a political journey, it was well 
understood he could not return to the fortress during the 
duration of the siege. Regnier ought to have made known 
this condition.” 

“ Poor Bourhaki ! One more of whom the Sphinx had 
got rid ! ” people repeated. 

But Du Breuil was thinking, and was more correct in 
his supposition that Bourhaki had set off confident in the 
success of his mission, persuaded that everything would im- 
mediately he arranged, and had conceived that he would not 
have to return to Metz. The request he had made to Fred- 
erick Charles proved without doubt that he had not been 
able to come to an understanding with the Empress, and 
that he found himself in a false position. 

The worst of it was that Bazaine himself had been fooled 
— and with what art! — by the incomparable Bismarck. A 
despatch from Ferrieres on the same day asked the Marshal 
this question: Would he accept for the surrender of his army 
the conditions which M. Regnier might stipulate? Bazaine 
was obliged to reply to General von Stiehle that he did not 
know Regnier. Furnished with a pass from Bismarck, this 
man had called himself the envoye of the Empress without 
written authorizations — had obtained information as to the 
conditions under which the Marshal would consent to nego- 
tiate a capitulation. “ I replied to him,” wrote Bazaine, 
“ that the only thing that I could do would be to accept a 
capitulation with the honours of war; but that I could not 
include the fort of Metz in the convention.” Military hon- 
our would not permit him to accept other conditions. If 
Prince Frederick Charles wished for more complete particu- 
lars, he offered to send to him General Boyer, his first Aide- 
de-camp. 

“ There, my dear fellow,” said Charlys, with indignation, 
“ that is what Bazaine dares to propose ! Capitulation with- 
out opposition ! . . . Do you know on what this Regnier was 
so well received? On a simple photograph of the Empress’s 
house at Hastings — a photograph bearing the signature of 
the Prince Imperial. He made a confidant of this suspicious 
individual — told him that we only had enough to eat until 
October 18th. People won’t believe these things later on, 
my friend! And he proposes his faithful Boyer, the coun- 
sellor of Mexico, Boyer I’lnvalide, the preacher of an ‘hon- 


THE DISASTER. 


299 


curable captivity/ to give particulars! Come, now! rather 
to enter into pourparlers^^ He added sharply : “ Strasburg 
surrendered yesterday after a splendid defence.” 

There was a silence. Clasping his hands, which cracked, 
he said : 

“ If we could only say as much ! Because I’ve lost all 
hope of making a sortie ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

Various preparations, however, seemed to belie it. Was 
the famous sortie on Thionville going to be executed ? They 
were clearing the railway line, and communication between 
the two hanks by Longeville was re-established. Hence the 
great joy of Floppe. 

“ They took care two months ago not to destroy the dan- 
gerous Noveant and Ars bridges, taking no notice of the 
earnest entreaties of the inhabitants! . . . On the other 
hand, the only bridge which they could have retained with- 
out danger, since it is under the cannon of the forts, besides 
being lined by a trench, Bazaine made haste to blow up. 
Much good that was, since it was afterwards necessary to re- 
pair it ! . . .” 

They conversed about the state of provisions. Sub-Com- 
missary Gaffiot had, on his own application, been relieved of 
the onerous duties which had been left him on August 17th 
by Commissary de Preval, who had been sent on a mission to 
General-Commissary Wolf, and who, like Major Magnan, 
had not since returned. 

The situation was not very brilliant. . A fortnight’s sup- 
ply of bread, and on the 15th nothing to eat but horseflesh! 
Oats, provender, and leaves were also lacking. They were 
feeding the animals on crushed rape-cakes and beetroot. 

“To-morrow it will be sabre-blades!” said Francastel 
banteringly. 

He passed all his time in Metz, returning full of stories 
and potinSy which he related with the grimaces of a chatter- 
ing woman. 


300 


THE DISASTER. 


The people of Metz are so excited that you might im- 
agine you were walking on an ant-hill. Bah ! they can draw 
up petitions and present them to the Marshal. It isn’t that 
which will prevent him from playing at billiards ! ” 

“You’re behindhand,” said Eroppe gravely. “It is at 
croquet that his Excellency now deigns to strut about.” 

This petition, which expressed in so dignified a fashion 
the feelings of the Municipal Council and the population, 
had just been taken to Bazaine by M. Marechal, the Mayor, 
an ardent patriot. The Marshal, ordinarily a good, even an 
affable man, poured forth his protests. He was exactly of 
the opinion of his interlocutor: the fate of the town ought 
to remain distinct from that of the army. He was preoccu- 
pied with the question of breaking through the enemy’s lines ; 
the recent small _operations foreshadowed more serious ones. 
On the other hand, he was not covering up the difiiculties — 
no horses to drag the supplies and the materiel; a sortie 
would sacrifice many men, would crowd the already full 
ambulances and hospitals. . . . The Mayor had to be content 
with his promises. 

In the meantime, they heard nothing but the voice of 
stout Colonel Jacquemere, who was tortured by irrepressible 
infiammations. Grumbling and blowing, he gave himself 
an air of importance, since Laune, worn out by fever, which 
he had constantly resisted, was keeping to his room. Jacque- 
mere had no doubt about the sortie. The order was 
again given to lighten the baggage. On October 3rd, two 
days’ biscuit and the last ration of bacon remaining in the 
magazine were distributed. On the previous day, the Cha- 
teau de Ladonchamps had been captured for the second time 
by the 6th corps. Two days before, the 4th corps had taken 
possession of the Billaudel chalet and the village of Lossy. 

On October 4th the Marshal convoked to his house, for 
half-past four in the afternoon, the commanders of the Army 
Corps, and the heads of the various departments. Du 
Breuil had gone to see Vedel at his bivouac. He never 
passed the length of the camp of the Du Bareil division, es- 
tablished on the Metz glacis, without sadness. He con- 
templated the long white and grey files of little Arab horses, 
formerly so fiery, now prostrated, lying on their sides, ter- 
ribly thin. Through habit, they still rose to their feet at 
meal-times, and, pulling at their halters, neighed and pawed. 


THE DISASTER. 


301 


in vain calling for the nosebags containing oats or the truss 
of provender. They gnawed everything which came under 
their teeth, leather and wood ; they ate their manes and their 
tails, momentarily finding strength to kick and bite; then 
they lay down again, distress in their glassy eyes, and their 
long agony recommenced. 

An officer of the Chasseurs d’Afrique, who was wearing 
his grizzled beard en ev entail, held out his hand to Du 
Breuil. 

“ Is the news true ? ” 

It was Lieutenant-Colonel de la Manse. He had aged 
much. He no longer seemed the same man who, on the 
morning of August 19th, at the Prefecture, where the im- 
perial staff was buzzing about, had laughingly complained, 
excited by the long night march, that they had made them 
come from Saint-Mihiel to Metz in one journey. 

“ What news ? ” repeated Du Breuil. . . . Why, it was 
stated that the Lyons and Hantes armies had totally de- 
feated the Prussians between £tampes and Fontainebleau — - 
that Trochu had completed their rout as far as Epernay. A 
large number of Prussians were said to have been burnt in 
the Forest of Senart, woodmen having lighted the fire with 
petroleum. 

He made a gesture expressive of doubt. 

“ So much the worse,’’ said La Manse. “ That would 
have compromised negotiations. Because they are going to 
treat for peace ? ” he asked ironically. “ Marshal Canrobert, 
when receiving the newly-promoted superior officers, told 
them that the Regent was intervening with the King of 
Prussia, and that we should leave here with the honours of 
war ! . . . Only that ? They are not exacting ! ” 

Jeering, he crushed under his heel a clod of earth. A 
snail which was there cracked, and spread itself out in a 
viscous trail. 

Pugh ! ” exclaimed La Manse. 

A gust of wind sent to their nostrils the pestilence of the 
horses’ charnel-house. And the disgust which the hideous- 
ness of things inspired in them was nothing compared to that 
which rose from their souls. 

Du Breuil resumed his journey. A splendid setting sun 
warmed the plain; bunches of yellow leaves waved on the 
last remaining trees in the pale red light. When at the 


302 


THE DISASTER. 


bivouac, a sergeant pointed out to him Captain Vedel’s tent, 
which was whiter than its neighbours, stretched with more 
care on a knoll surrounded by ingenious little trenches. 
Vedel was seated on a folding-stool, sewing a button on his 
great-coat with coarse thread. His strong red hands were 
lined with scratches. 

“You have fallen?” 

“ Among the stones at the Chateau de Ladonchamps at- 
tack.” 

He related the affair. His men were rough fellows. What 
misery when such men were hungry! Many soldiers went 
without arms to dig up potatoes near the outposts of the 
enemy, who let them alone. For example, some poor devils 
of soldiers of the line at the 4th corps, at Lessy, had been the 
dupes of their cupidity. The Germans had hoisted a white 
flag, held out beautiful crisp loaves of bread, appetizing 
pieces of bacon, shouting: “ Bons Frantsous, camarates, nix 
capout!” The Frenchmen — one, then ten, then fifty — had 
advanced, been harpooned, and kept prisoners. 

“Will you believe it!” said Vedel, indignant. “The 
Prussians call that fishing for information ! ” 

The worst was that some of the famished soldiers allowed 
themselves to be captured, even deserted. He recalled other 
tricks of the enemy. Some were funny; for instance, it was 
found at Ladonchamps that a battery which they had feared 
in the distance was composed of long stove-pipes mounted 
on the fore-part of ploughs. Others were sinister; for in- 
stance, detachments in the midst of the battle raised the 
butts of their rifles in the air, and, when the French ap- 
proached without suspicion, brought their weapons to their 
shoulders and fired. He suspected the Prussians of using 
explosive bullets; he asked for loyal warfare. 

Hospitable, he obliged his cousin to accept a “ cooler ” in 
the shape of a gill of brandy-and-water, sweetened with 
sugar-plums. Du Breuil felt a real pleasure in seeing him 
move about and speak of the approaching sortie. He did 
not trouble himself about knowing whether Bourbaki was 
going to return, whether Bazaine was negotiating. Fie was 
alone preoccupied with the neatness, the food, and the dress 
of his company. 

“ Judin is improving,” he said. “ He will pull through, 
thanks to that good Mdlle. Sorbet. But it is terrible in the 


THE DISASTEK. 


303 


ambulances; almost all those who have been amputated die 
from diarrhoea or typhus. The gangrene of the hospital car- 
ries off the others.” 

He looked Du Breuil in the eyes with a fine energetic 
face. 

“It’s that way. What can you do? We must be philo- 
sophical. We shall get out of the difficulty. I don’t under- 
stand those who shout and those who cavil. One settles the 
matter with politics, the other with plans of campaign. It 
is so simple to mind one’s own business.” 

Tranquil, he folded his arms. The skin of his nose was 
peeling; there were knots in his beard; his smartness did 
not suffer from them. Firm-set in his large boots, he re- 
sembled those hardy peasants who are strengthened by pri- 
vations. He had no needs. With his own money he pur- 
chased potatoes for his men, but the subscription in favour 
of the Metz poor had just emptied his purse. Pooh! what 
more did he want than a good cloak, a blanket, and a piece 
of soap? He reaccompanied Du Breuil in a brotherly man- 
r halfway on his journey. 

“ There’s Judin invalided at one sweep,” he said. “ One- 
armed — that is worth the cross ? Should the proposition pass 
through your hands, you might give it your support ? ” 

“Well, and yourself?” said Du Breuil, smiling. 

“I?” Vedel became red. “But there are others before 
me. Hot even the Major, a hard man, in the battalion is 
decorated ! ” 

“A fine fellow, this Vedel!” thought Du Breuil upon 
entering the Ban Saint-Martin. But he no longer said it in 
the same tone as formerly. Instead of his unjust disdain, 
he felt sympathy, almost admiration. 

Bestaud was waiting for him, conversing with Gex, Cus- 
sac, and other members of the various staffs. The council 
was still being held. 

“ General Coffinieres isn’t present,” said Comte de Cussac, 
“ but his ears must be tingling. Depend upon it, he is being 
talked about.” 

The attitude of the Governor of Metz was, in fact, criti- 
cised by certain commanders of corps. They stated that, in 
view of the resources hidden in the town, a few domiciliary 
visits would have doubled their supplies. His weakness in 
regard to the newspapers was their second complaint. “He 


304 


THE DISASTER. 


is aiming at popularity.” It must be confessed in this case 
that he succeeded very badly. The meetings of the council 
were stormy, full of bitterness and recriminations. Bazaine, 
they said, looked upon the discord of his lieutenants with- 
out displeasure, conversed with them, if need be, in secret, 
listening to their complaints, encouraging them with per- 
fidious good-nature. As a proof of this at the present time, 
they told a good story. A German newspaper, which had 
been found on a prisoner, spoke of some waggons belonging 
to General Frossard, which were cram full of champagne. 
A Metz newspaper at once reproduced the article, and the 
only reply they made to the General’s complaint was that 
it had been published “ by order.” 

In the midst of laughter. Major Gex turned his keen 
Israelitish profile towards the Marshal’s villa, and contented 
himself with smiling. 

“ Apropos,” said Captain de Verdier, of Soleille’s staff, 
whose long legs made him resemble a wading-bird, “ you 
know the poor Wild Boar is progressing very badly? ” 

“ Blache?” 

But Du Breuil on the preceding days had had good news 
of him. . . . Dysentery, it appeared. . . . 

“ Good ! ” said Restaud, upon seeing the orderlies stop 
the horses which they were leading up and down, and the 
sentries get into position again. “ The council is over.” 

The Marshals appeared — Canrobert, his features ani- 
mated; Leboeuf discontented, biting his heavy moustache; 
Ladmirault and Frossard gloomy. What was the news? 
They questioned each other. Jacquemere, who was on the 
best of terms with Boyer, chattered. The Marshal had pro- 
posed to make a sortie towards Thionville, the 6th corps and 
the Guard marching on the left bank of the Moselle, the 
4th corps following the heights which dominated the valley, 
the 3rd and the 2nd corps skirting the left bank. Leboeuf 
had made strong objections, the role assigned to his five di- 
visions appearing to him to be too heavy. The Marshal had 
replied : “To leave our lines without fighting is impossible. 
I have placed before you the plan which appears to me to 
offer least difficulty; if you don’t accept it, kindly point 
out to me another, which will be discussed in its turn, and 
we will afterwards carry out what has been decided upon by 
the council.” 


THE DISASTER. 


305 


Laune, whom Du Breuil went to salute, and who, thinner, 
his teeth clenched, was quaking with fever upon his bed, said 
to him: 

I understand nothing about all these discussions : they 
say that the Marshal always tries to place upon the shoulders 
of his subordinates the responsibility which is alone incum- 
bent upon himself. Why doesn’t he order? They will obey 
him.” 

He added, and he must have felt very chilled in his soli- 
tude to have given way to such an outburst of confidence, so 
little in accordance with his character: 

“ The misfortune, my dear fellow, is that many regard 
the captivity of war as a slight mishap, so great is their de- 
sire to preserve the army intact. Interested arriere-penseeSy 
political calculations — that is what is our destruction. The 
hope of concluding with this agent of Bismarck once dis- 
appointed, there are our great chiefs asking themselves if 
they would not do better to rally to the new Government. 
Yesterday it was the Regency; to-day it is the Republic. 
Let us save our titles and our positions. Happy are those 
who, like myself, have nothing to lose ! ” 

Du Breuil left him to go to rest. ... In the evening he 
found his bed covered with a large wadded quilt. Mme. 
Guimbail had heard say that the nights were chilly. She 
still blushed when she met him on the staircase. He now 
found her almost pretty, so true is it that a passionate feel- 
ing transforms the most displeasing face. If solitude 
weighed on so many men in the vigour of manhood, who 
knows, he asked himself, what the thin widow in her demure 
isolation might feel towards all these military men? By 
many little services and furtive attentions, she allowed him 
to guess her predilection. Restaud had even joked him about 
it. Frisch exploited her good dispositions to his own profit, 
getting himself coddled in the kitchen. 

The next morning the hope of a departure was confirmed. 
All the army ambulances were evacuated on to the town, and 
sickly men were sent into the fort. The batteries, owing to 
want of horses, were reduced to four guns; in the cavalry 
they were hardly able to form a squadron per regiment. A 
letter from General Coffinieres, carried by Captain Chagres, 
at the same time asked the Marshal to increase the effective 
of the garrison to twenty-nine thousand men. Bazaine 


306 


THE DISASTER. 


pointed out to the General that on August 14th he was con- 
tented with eighteen thousand men. liTevertheless, the 
Laveaucoupet division would be increased by small reserve 
companies and five thousand dismounted horsemen. Metz 
would maintain, therefore, more than twenty-five thousand 
regulars. 

Floppe was teasing Captain Chagres; he had a good op- 
portunity. A recent misadventure of the Governor had en- 
livened the general staff. Had not Coffinieres bethought 
himself of writing a long letter of adhesion to the Pro- 
visional Government, and of ei^trusting it to the balloon 
which each day carried the correspondence written on for- 
eign note-paper? This letter described the situation of the 
town, the state of opinion, and contained bitter complaints 
against Bazaine. The balloon had fallen into the hands 
of the Prussians, and Prince Frederick Charles had just 
given himself the malicious pleasure of sending back the 
compromising missive to the Marshal, underlined with 
red pencil. Bazaine was not concerned ; he had even 
affected to joke about the bad character of General Cof- 
finieres. 

“ So, Chagres, you are converted to the Bepublic ? ” jeered 
Floppe. 

Chagres, a plain man with a mouth like that of a sleeping 
ox, replied: 

“ My friend, I don’t care a damn for the Bepublic ! ” 

“ But, Chagres, will the town hold out long, once you are 
alone ? ” 

“ My friend, I don’t care a damn for the town,” replied 
the stout man with indifference. “ I don’t care a damn for 
Bismarck, I don’t care a damn for Bazaine, I don’t care a 
damn even for you, if you must know it.” 

However, the sortie remained in suspense. Leboeuf in- 
sisted on the difficulty of debouching with only his troops, 
and asked that the Guard be added. Nevertheless, during 
the day each one thought they were going to set off. Many 
faces beamed. In the evening they made a special distribu- 
tion of two days’ oats and hay to the horses. Horsemen, 
through affection, gorged their horses, which died. Officers 
that night slept in their clothes, waiting in the cold night 
for the order which did not come. Du Breuil went to sleep 
late, dreaming that Mme. Guimbail — no, it was Bose Noel — 


THE DISASTER. 


307 


no, the auburn-haired girl in the glove-shop — noiselessly en- 
tered and bent over his bedhead. 

In the morning he was sent to Lossy, with the mission to 
assure himself if the 4th corps were ready. Upon returning 
he found a singular change. Strange news! — Leboeuf had 
just been ordered to make an operation on Courcelles-sur- 
Nied. 

“ That isn’t the way to Thionville ! ” fumed Floppe. 

But the most astonishing thing was the letter which Cof- 
finieres had just written to the Marshal. He reproached him 
with abandoning Metz, after having exhausted its supplies; 
he affirmed that the town could not resist without the army; 
he foresaw fifteen thousand new wounded in consequence of 
the fight, crowding the ambulances, which were already filled 
by twenty thousand sick men. This sortie was, at short 
notice, the fall of the town and the loss of Lorraine. He 
threw the responsibility of events upon the Marshal, and in 
advance called upon the judgment of posterity. 

“ Do you know,” repeated Charlys, with exasperation, “ it 
is the third time that he has insisted upon keeping us here, 
knowing well, however, that only the resources of the town 
can feed us, since our magazines are empty. Does he hope 
that the presence of Bazaine will free him from responsi- 
bility, and will cover his faults ? ” He added : “ The Marshal 
has a conference this afternoon with the Governor of Metz 
and the General Commander of Artillery. A bad sign. 
Recollect the morning of Grimont. These gentlemen will 
give excellent reasons for remaining quiet.” 

He was right. The order to boucan horses, for they were 
unable to prepare preserved meat, owing to want of salt, 
showed almost immediately an intention of stopping. 

“Hot astonishing,” Francastel was saying. “A foenrich 
prisoner has just stated that the enemy knows of our projects, 
and is preparing to receive us five against one. Forsooth, 
the Marshal reflected ! ” 

Mourgues, exuberant, attributed this fluctuation to news 
learnt that very morning from the newspapers seized on the 
prisoners, namely, that the armistice was being negotiated; 
that they had communicated to Jules Favre the conditions 
imposed by the King of Prussia, and they were awaiting in 
the evening at Ferrieres the reply of the Government of the 
National Defence. 


308 


THE DISASTER. 


Mourgues added: 

“ Fort Montretout is in the hands of the Prussians. Mas- 
ters of the heights which dominate Paris, they can bombard 
it at their ease. The terrified Parisians ” — he rolled the r’s 
— “ will force the Government to submit. Therefore, why 
venture upon a fight? Let us wait. Everything will come 
right.” 

“Wait!” repeated Charlys. “Wait until we have eaten 
our last crust? Wait until our weapons fall from our hands 
through weakness ? Because you don’t grow thin ” — 
Mourgues was stout — “ cannot you see the exhaustion of the 
soldiers, how wan, pale, debilitated they are? Nevertheless, it 
pricks one’s heart ! ” 

“ It is precisely with the object of filling our magazines,” 
said D’Homolle, another of the Marshal’s officers, “ that 
Leboeuf has received the order to capture the large stores at 
Courcelles-sur-N ied.” 

Only one thing prevented that being done — Leboeuf ex- 
plained on the following day that he considered the operation 
impossible. Bazaine did not insist, and ordered Canrobert 
to carry out a foraging expedition on the farms of Grandes 
and Petites Tapes, on Bellevue and Saint-Remy. The Volti- 
geurs of the Guard would support the operation. The 3rd 
and the 4th corps would make a diversion on their side. 
The attack was to commence at eleven o’clock. But the 
troops, in consequence of the late transmission of orders, 
only formed into line about one o’clock. In the evening 
Restaud, sent to the field of action, brought back news : 

“ The 3rd and the 4th corps engaged feebly, the 6th with 
ardour. Boisjol, under the Marshal’s eyes, headed the Volti- 
geurs of the Guard with superb bravery. I met a German 
officer who had been taken prisoner. Some soldiers near me 
jeered. But he drew himself up, and said: ^ It isn’t well to 
laugh.’ And, looking at me : ‘ Don’t be so proud. Your 
turn is coming ! ’ ” Restaud added : “ Unfortunately the 
foraging expedition under the enemy’s violent fire could not 
be executed. The troops return in good order.” 

The bulletin was known. It was always the same. So 
that nothing should change, the two Tapes fired by the 
Prussians blazed out in the evening. And one thousand two 
hundred and fifty wounded went to swell the ambulances, 
where the soldiers no longer got better, where they died. 


THE DISASTER. 


309 


There was an overcast sky, cold weather, and rain, on the 
morning of the 8th. Frisch, who was lighting a small fire in 
the fireplace, asked: 

“ Do you recollect, sir, the townspeople at whose house 
you slept at Moulins, on the evening of the battle of Horny ? ” 

The Poirets? Yes, they were the people — the old, busy 
couple, with anguish in their eyes, with feeble, shrill voices. 
Poiret? The worthy man whom they had met at the turn- 
ing off of the Moulins-les-Metz road, a few days after Saint- 
Privat? Well? 

“ He would like to speak to you, sir. He told Mme. 
Guimbail that it was a great secret.” 

Du Breuil went downstairs to his landlady’s. A fur cap 
between his fingers, the old man was compressing his lips, 
his eyelids low, full of iipportance. 

Major,” he said, “ although you have not recognised me, 
I have met you often since the evening of Horny. I have 
come to open my heart to you, because your face inspires 
me with confidence. Listen, then ! ” He lowered his voice, 
looking around him. “Your Marshal betrays all of us! I 
have seen him go to the Prussians I ” 

“ M. Poiret, a man of your age. . . .” 

The old man continued with energy: 

“ A man of my age. Major, knows what he says when he 
has seen. It was on September 26th, a Monday evening. I 
was taking a bottle of brandy to the francs-tireurs of Ars to 
give them a drop. I must tell you I have a cousin among 
them. I stopped at the end of the bridge. I heard some 
horses arriving, and I saw Marshal Bazaine pass with an 
artillery trumpeter and a chasseur or a hussar, who was 
carrying a white flag. A little later they returned alone. 
I said to them, ‘ What, you return alone ? ’ They answered, 
‘ Yes, we have received the order to return to the Ban Saint- 
Martin.’ I even gave a pinch of snuff to the trumpeter. 
Where had Bazaine gone, then? To the Prussians, sir! ” 

He spoke with a great air of sincerity. The disquieted 
face of Mme. Guimbail appeared through the half-open 
door. 

“Was it really the Marshal?” said Du Breuil. 

“Yes, yes; it was he with his white hair and his red 
horse. I know him well. A few days before he spoke to me 
at Moulins, and, turning towards M. Arnous-Riviere, he 


310 


THE DISASTER. 


then ordered him to have the cabarets closed at nine o’clock, 
and to forbid anyone to walk about in the streets ! ” 

Du Breuil remaining incredulous, he grew warm: 

“ If I were the only one ! But a Moulins carpenter — his 
name is Paquin — has twice recognised the Marshal going 
towards the Ars lines, and has seen him enter the Prussian 
lines. I am a quiet old man. What interest should I have 
in coming to tell you this to bring upon myself trouble? I 
tell you, and I repeat it to you. . . .” 

He solemnly stretched out his hand: 

“ Bazaine goes to plot with the enemy ! ” 

Du Breuil, in order to calm the increasing excitement of 
the old man, tried to convince him that he was mistaken, and 
not without difficulty he sent him away, advising him to 
keep silence. 

“ It is too much,” he said to himself when alone. “ It is 
impossible ! ” 

He thought about it all day. On the following day a 
lugubrious duty fell to his lot. He went to the army ceme- 
tery on the lie Chambiere to assure himself that it was im- 
possible to give up the body of a Lieutenant of the Olden- 
burg Dragoons who had died in hospital, and who was ear- 
nestly claimed by his family. He contemplated the covered 
tomb where, in all probability, the guardian explained to 
him, the Prussian officer was at rest in the midst of two 
thousand bodies of both nations, buried eight high. Not 
far away a yawning trench awaited new hecatombs. Twenty- 
four corpses, in shrouds open to the air, were stretched at 
the bottom side by side, some showing an arm, some a head. 
There was something terrifying about their immobility. 
They received the rain with a death-like stiffness, the ludi- 
crousness of which was chilling. At the corner of the trench 
some soil was falling down with an insensible slipping mo- 
tion. The guardian, a man with a sparse beard and very 
pale blue eyes, which were no longer astonished at anything, 
was smoking his pipe. 

“At first,” he said, “they chucked them in by cartfuls, 
stark naked, en salade” 

Du Breuil then crossed the bivouac of the Lancers of the 
Guard. In the mud and under the downpour of rain large 
raw-boned horses, without mane or tail, their coats stripped 
off and showing the skin, stood upright on their spider legs 


THE DISASTER. 


311 


or lay down in the puddles. Here and there was stretched 
out a dead animal, the ears of which its neighbours were 
eating. A horse with mad eyes rushed upon Du Breuil, its 
ears lying flat and its teeth protruding. No one to look 
after these animals in their resigned or furious agony ! 
Under the flooded tents the Lancers were killing their dis- 
gust for life, wallowing in sleep; or else, their eyes open in 
a torpor of alcohol and tobacco, dreaming of their native 
place, of peace, of rest since they did not want to lead them 
to the flght. The yawning of one of them, a fair giant, ex- 
haled, from the opening of a red jaw, the grunting of a wild 
animal. 

The recollection of Lacoste was then poignant. How he 
would have suffered to see that! . . . Du Breuil perceived 
two Lancers crouching near a stretched-out mare, so empty 
that its ribs pierced its skin. One was that man of the Guard 
who, carrying the lantern, had conducted him through the 
Saint-Cloud barracks at Lacoste’s, he who had lighted them 
on their round; the other was old Saint-Paul. The latter 
was placing a handful of straw between the teeth of the ani- 
mal. But without having the strength to masticate it, she 
breathed quickly, jerkingly — a series of little breaths which 
seemed to make the supreme shudders, the last ripples of life, 
pass over her miserable carcase. 

“ There is nothing to be done,” said the quartermaster. 
“ Take that to my old Clairon.” And Du Breuil saw this 
rough man bend over the mare to kiss her hollow nostrils 
with inefficient and discouraged tenderness. “ Farewell, 
Musette,” he said in a harsh voice. 

Musette! an acute and atrocious pain passed through Du 
Breuil. How recognise, in this long, living corpse, the ele- 
gant animal with shining coat which, awakened from a doze 
in its box at Saint-Cloud, had neighed at its master — the 
pawing mare which, on the day of the departure of the 
Guard for Boulay, left the Hotel de TEurope at a slow trot, 
while Titan, with heavy bounds, leapt around her? Musette, 
whom Lacoste had so much loved — was this poor dying ani- 
mal, these remains for the grave. Musette? 

Three steps away Gouju was stroking an old troop-horse, 
all muscles and nerves, a veritable anatomical piece. It was 
masticating the straw with its yellow teeth. Saint-Paul 
approached, and, looking at it with flxed, dry eyes, seemed 
21 


312 


THE DISASTER. 


to centre on it all his affection. Gouju, moved, turned away 
his head. 

“ Quartermaster ! ” called Du Breuil. 

Saint-Paul looked at him and saw a discomposed face. 
Their souls, so different, so far apart, brought nearer to- 
gether by a common pity, notwithstanding difference of rank 
and station, fraternized. Du Breuil, in an impulse in which 
his sympathy and his gratitude tried to express itself, 
stretched out his hand to the veteran. Saint-Paul hesi- 
tated, reddened, took his hand. It was a long, silent clasp- 
ing of hands between the officer and the soldier. Upon low- 
ering his eyes, Du Breuil noticed Saint-Paul’s wounded, 
foot. 

“ You still suffer? ” 

Gouju dared to intervene: 

“ He doesn’t want to go to the ambulance.” 

“ I don’t want to die from gangrene,” said the other. 

In a couple of words he explained his very simple remedy : 
he placed brandy on the wound; then, every now and then, 
he removed the rotten flesh with his knife, just as one hol- 
lows out rotten fruit. 

Du Breuil sought for some kind words, a method of 
obliging, of helping the veteran. He feared to hurt his feel- 
ings, smiled sadly, and, touching his kepi, said: 

“ To better times ! ” 

Saint-Paul, stiff, his hand at his foraging-cap, saluted. 
Discipline had re-established the barrier. 

Du Breuil re-entered the town. 

‘‘Major!” said a voice. M. Dumaine, still stout and 
ruddy, but pitiable in the rain, having the air of a disquieted, 
prowling dog, fastened himself on to him, and, rolling his 
eyes, asked : “ Is it true that Bourbaki is in prison at the 
£cole d’ Application ? They affirm that he wished to make 
a sortie at all cost, and that he told Bazaine so. Others re- 
peat that the Marshal is keeping him in his house at the 
Ban Saint-Martin with levelled guns, for fear they come to 
rescue him.” 

Du Breuil tried to get rid of the stout man. 

“ Really, you assure me that Bourbaki left with this 
Regnier ? ” repeated Dumaine. “ But it is so improbable I 
Very few people believe it. Just now, again, some soldiers 
pretended that he had boxed Bazaine’s ears, and that the Mar- 


THE DISASTER. 


313 

shal, having killed him in a duel, had buried him in his 
park.” 

Du Breuil spoke of the Bersheims, to change the con- 
versation. Dumaine, ill at ease, eluded the question ; he had 
not seen them for some time — he had been ill. His look and 
his honeyed voice showed he was lying. He made off. 

Du Breuil had promised to obtain news of Blache at the 
Ecole Saint-Clement. He came across Decherac, still pale, 
who was accompanying Mme. de Fontades. They were leav- 
ing a confectioner’s, where, eating mirabelles, they had 
waited until the rain stopped. Mme. de Fontades was wear- 
ing in her corsage a bouquet of autumn roses, delicate as the 
paleness of her complexion. Her eyelids were “killing”; 
she had the grace of a sweetheart. Her attitude showed she 
had captured Decherac, who appeared delighted. He was 
going to resume his duties in a few days, he announced. He 
was taking the air — he smiled at his friend — by order of the 
doctor. He added: 

“ Metz is mournful ! One meets nothing but lame men 
and men with crutches. The day before yesterday, in the 
fine weather, it was a veritable defile of invalids.” 

Mme. de Fontades smelt her roses. From all the streets, 
houses, and pavements transuded, in the damp air, a musty 
smell of phenol and chlorine, which did not succeed in hiding 
the terrible stench of purulent sores and decomposed flesh. 
Decherac, who had a great esteem for Blache, insisted upon 
accompanying Du Breuil. All three walked in a row, Mme. 
de Fontades, from whose umbrella the rain dripped down 
their necks, in the middle. 

“ F ather Desroques ? ” 

A Jesuit father informed them that he was very ill; his 
devotion had exhausted him. “ A torch which is going to 
extinguish,” a doctor had told him. 

“Major Blache?” 

The Father made a gesture of powerlessness. 

“ An operation which had succeeded so well ! . . . every 
sign of recovery . . . and then, from one day to the other, 
dysentery. . . . There was no hope.” 

With light steps the two officers and Mme. de Fontades — 
the Father cast an anxious look at her — advanced into the 
dormitory. Their attention was attracted by a wounded 
man, who was so big that his head and feet almost projected 


314 


THE DISASTER. 


from the bed. A wicker framework raised the sheets above 
him in the form of a rainbow, so that they should not touch 
him. In consequence he appeared gigantic. His red, swollen 
face turned towards them; his enormous moustache was 
turned back ; his eyes were starting from his head ; he mum- 
bled an incoherent phrase. 

“ He has remained afflicted in his mind,” said the Father, 
in a low voice. Then, with naive admiration, “ What a 
pity ! Such a splendid man ! ” 

The Father was very small, very shrivelled, so weak that 
a fillip would have overturned him. Down there, that stiff 
form, that cadaverous face, the skin of which, too large, hung 
down, that wasted body, reduced to nothing, was Blache. 
His lustreless eyes did not recognise them. 

“ Blache, it is us — Du Breuil, Decherac, your friends 1 ” 
Hot a movement. The Wild Boar’s protruding teeth, 
which were snarlingly shown, reminded one of the teeth of 
an animal at bay, which is about to die. 

A poignant emotion seized Du Breuil, and even the frivo- 
lous Decherac was touched. Again he saw Blache, untiring 
at his work, impassible when under fire, devoted to his mas- 
ter, Marshal Leboeuf, like those growling dogs which are 
the most faithful. There were few men of this stamp. Was 
it not a stupid irony, a revolting cruelty on the part of fate, 
that this old soldier should have escaped bullets, shells, the 
point of sabres and bayonets, should have ridden from battle- 
fields in flames by miraculous chances, to come, miserable 
and solitary, to agonize in this hospital bed, drained by a 
fcetid death in the midst of the most abject pollution? 

“ Blache, don’t you recognise me ? It is I — Du Breuil ! ” 
There was a painful silence. The cadaverous face re- 
mained rigid, yet Blache saw and heard them. Du Breuil 
stretched out his hand to take that of his old comrade, which 
was hanging down on the bedclothes; but with savage re- 
serve he withdrew it. What things were expressed by such 
a motion ! What humiliation ! What reproach ! “ Let me 

die ! Why contemplate my misery ? ” Blache seemed to say. 

Du Breuil, Decherac, and Mme. de Fontades consulted 
together by looks. The silence was so intense that they 
were stifled; they felt ashamed, as though they had involun- 
tarily insulted that which suffering and death holds most 
sacred. Mme. de Fontades took the bouquet of roses from 


THE DISASTER. 


315 


her corsage, and, having kissed it, placed it by a pious in- 
spiration on the bed, against the Wild Boar’s breast. Some- 
thing indefinable appeared on Blache’s face. With trem- 
bling fingers he took the roses, slowly and with precaution, 
smelt them, and this man, who had looked Death in the face, 
and who feared nothing, turned towards the wall and wept. 

Du Breuil and Decherac now went away on tip-toe, Mme. 
de Fontades following them with agitated face. 

When going out, the umbrella of a very fashionably- 
dressed gentleman knocked up against Du Breuil’s hood. 

“ Maxime ! ” 

The thin face lit up; Judin, his right arm in a sling, 
smiled. His umbrella hindered him from saluting. His 
infirmity caused him more annoyance than physical pain. 
Especially before the young lady, to whom he was introduced, 
his humiliation was visible. Mme. de Fontades gave a little 
cry. 

“ Vicomte Judin! He was a relative of ” 

He was, in fact, related by marriage to one of her aunts, 
and consequently was a kind of cousin to her. She quickly 
invited him to dinner, delighted to find in him a man of her 
society, of her tastes. So that Decherac should not be jeal- 
ous, she prettily pressed his arm. 

“ There are, then, fashionable tailors in Metz ? ” Du 
Breuil asked. 

In his tight-fitting frock-coat, pearl-gray trousers, white 
gaiters, and patent-leather shoes, Du Breuil found once more 
his Judin, the Judin of the club, of the pleasure-parties 
with Bloomfield, Lapoigne, and Peyrode, the Judin of the 
times which appeared to him so far, so far away. . . . 

“Parbleu! ” said Judin. “I have the tailor of the Mar- 
shal and General Boyer. These gentlemen have just had 
plain clothes made. You see how informed I am. Boyer 
even said to this man who was taking his measure : ‘ If I 
must file past the Prussians, I don’t want it to be in uni- 
form.’ Textual 1 As for me, I’ve handed over my cloak and 
red trousers. Invalided! But, don’t you know, had it not 
been for the devotion of Mdlle. Sorbet, I should have died ! ” 

Mme. de Fontades was puzzled, scented the romantic, 
and asked for details. Was this lady Sorbet young and 
pretty? . . . But why remain in the street to receive the 
rain ? Why not all three come home with her ? Her husband 


316 


THE DISASTER. 


would 1)0 charmed. . . . Du Breuil excused himself, and 
Judin wanted to see him home. They parted. Decherac, 
led away by his pretty nurse, cried: 

“ Bonjour a Bestaud.” 

When they were alone Du Breuil and Judin, joyful at 
again finding one another, looked at each other; then their 
smile slowly faded, and gave place to the disquietude and 
anxiety of the present. 

“Well, my poor Pierre?” 

Du Breuil did not reply. 

Judin continued: 

“ I now live at the Hotel du Herd. A number of ofiicers 
meet at the club. There is nothing but a hue and cry 
against Bazaine. Perhaps down there at the Ban Saint- 
Martin you haven’t an idea of the agitation in Metz.” 

“ Possibly,” said Du Breuil. “ But what does it amount 
to? Wind!” 

“ Hum ! ” said J udin. “ When the wind conunences to 
blow a tempest! So much indignation may well result in 
a general revolt. What is the obstacle to the will of the 
town and the whole army? A single man — Bazaine.” 

“Well,” replied Du Breuil, “will you put him aside? 
How?” 

The thing seemed to him absurd, inconceivable. Were 
they going to suppress the Marshal? By what means?— 
violence? It was foolish: they could not go beyond the law 
without committing a crime. Persuasion ? Obtain his 
resignation as Commander-in-Chief, get him to give up his 
position to another? Was that probable? 

“Is there no hope of convincing him?” ventured Judin. 
“ If one appealed to his honour, to his patriotism, and if he 
remained blind to his interest, to the feeling of responsibility 
which he is incurring? France would ask him for the reason 
of his inaction, and of his pourparlers with the enemy ! ” 

“Ah! who will convince him?” said Du Breuil, out of 
patience. “ Who will speak louder than his incognizance, 
than his ambition, than his egoism? He has neither equals 
nor master.” 

“However,” opposed Judin, “it is unheard of, that two 
hundred thousand men are dependent on the folly or the 
treason of one man. Here is Bazaine now consulting the 
Generals of Division, asking them for their opinion on the 


THE DISASTER. 


317 


situation, as though he didn’t yet feel himself sufficiently 
screened by the complicity of the commanders of the corps. 
I was dining the day before yesterday with General Chenot, 
when he received a message from Canrobert, asking him to 
go and confer with him. He made a singular face, and mur- 
mured: ‘Just so; we are called in extremis to pronounce 
the absolution ! ’ ” 

“ I know. The meeting was held yesterday at the quar- 
ters of the commanders of the corps. Most of the Generals, 
if I judge by a few who have not kept their opinions secret, 
have admitted the possibility of a military convention in 
accordance with which the army would be allowed to retire 
with arms and baggage to a neutral point of the territory. 
If not, they declare themselves ready to die at the head of 
their troops. All that is mere talk, Maxime! The enemy 
cannot, will not, grant us a capitulation other than that of 
Sedan. It amuses us, famine comes, and when we wish to die 
fighting it will be too late. There you are ! ” 

“Then, how is it going to end?” asked Judin. 

“ Badly,” concluded Du Breuil. “ Bless your stars you’re 
invalided. You are doubtless spared captivity in Germany.” 

Judin suddenly became purple and protested: 

“No, no, Pierre; don’t say such things. It is impos- 
sible!” 

He was thinking, “ It is shameful ! ” But within him- 
self there rang out the secret voice which, louder than the 
sound at reveille, or that to extinguish fires, was crying to 
each one, morning and night, the fatal prophecy without 
succeeding in shaking off the stupor of that crowd of men, 
fascinated, it seemed, by the inexorable approach of its fate. 

“ Look ! ” he said. 

Behind the dripping windows of a cafe some officers were 
wildly gesticulating and speaking in a high tone of voice. 
Du Breuil recognised two well-known figures — Colonel la 
Maisonval and Captain Laprune — Orestes and Pylades. 
They were playing a game of ecarte;,one could see from the 
manner in which they were playing that these cards were 
more familiar than geographical maps. “Isn’t this the 
Rhine which passes Sarrelouis ? I beg your pardon. Colonel, 
it is the Moselle ! ” 

“ From my armchair in Mdlle. Sorbet’s drawing-room,” 
said Judin, “I saw them pass before the window every day 


318 


THE DISASTER. 


at the same hour going to the cafe, the Captain supporting 
his lame Colonel. Shall we go in ? ” 

“ No, thanks,” said Du Breuil. 

The night was falling quickly. He entered the chief 
headquarters soaked to the skin. 

“Do you know,” said Francastel, “that after to-morrow 
they will give the horses nothing more to eat? In five days 
no more bread! In eleven days! . . .” 

He made his finger-nail crack on his tooth. 

And there arose before Du Breuil a vision of the enor- 
mous beast with two hundred thousand mouths. Tormented 
by a voracious and regular need for sustenance, it had swal- 
lowed during two months mountains of provisions, dried up 
rivers of wine, whole harvests; innumerable sacks of corn 
had been eaten; fiocks had been devoured by hundreds. He 
was haunted by the image of famished soldiers. Some were 
eating with greedy loathing the badly cooked horseflesh, cut 
off from the carcase immediately before; others were tear- 
ing pieces of bread. All, in their pallid thinness, prostrated 
or febrile, had features which were drawn and bestial. Those 
who could get provisions were seized with a savage egoism, 
and hid themselves to eat. All bonds were broken. Ofiicers 
and soldiers no longer dared to look each other in the face. 
Each one became a savage. Alone the hours when food was 
distributed still brought together this unsatiated crowd. 
But soon, when the last horses, dead from starvation, had 
served for food, what was to become of them, what had they 
to hope? 


CHAPTER IV. 

On the 10th, in the incessant rain which transformed the 
Ban Saint-Martin into a lake, the mud splashed up under the 
wheels of vehicles and the hoofs of horses. The commanders 
of the corps and the heads of departments were arriving, and 
under the presidency of the Marshal was held the supreme 
council, whence, according to his own terms, the definite 
solution of the situation of the army was to issue. It lasted 
an interminable time. Was it going to result in a desperate 


THE DISASTER. 


319 


but glorious inspiration, or that eternal submission, that sad 
resignation to circumstances? General Jarras, who was 
present at it, but, as upon every occasion, without delibera- 
tive voice, appeared. Generals and Colonels, Charlys and 
Jacquemere, anxiously surrounded him. A large number of 
officers of all ranks, and belonging to all branches of the 
army, pressed forward for news. Du Breuil then heard the 
report of the meeting. 

They had been divided in opinions, throwing responsibil- 
ities in each other’s faces. Coffinieres, accused of making 
peace with the political opposition which was fermenting in 
Metz, called upon to order fresh requisitions in the town, 
and to suppress the license of too patriotic and too Repub- 
lican newspapers, at the mercy of the council, had justified 
his conduct and put forward the grievances of Metz. They 
had decided, in the presence of his insistence, to leave at the 
fort provisions necessary for its defence in case the army 
should move away. 

Passing to the military question, the necessity of imme- 
diately leaving had been recognised. All the reports of the 
commanders of army corps concluded either for an honour- 
able capitulation or for a vigorous sortie en masse. The 
Marshal had shown the impossibility of the latter course. A 
political expedient was, therefore, the only thing which re- 
mained. By addressing the King of Prussia, in the name of 
order and peace, perhaps they would find him disposed to 
utilize the Army of the Rhine for the establishment or the 
maintenance of a stable power : the Empire, everyone under- 
stood, and, if not, the actual Government established at Paris 
and at Tours or another. . . Coffinieres — and he must be 
praised for it — had then protested: 

It was not admissible that the Prussians would allow us 
to return to France to establish order; those overtures would 
only result in our dragging on until the exhausting of our 
feeble resources. Would it not be better first to try the fate 
of arms? They would negotiate afterwards if misfortune 
willed that they were reduced to negotiating.” 

But the majority were of the contrary opinion; first of 
all pourparlers, and if the enemy’s conditions were incom- 
patible with military honour, they would then try to make 
a way out by force. Feeling that it was a case of urgency, 
Ladmirault had asked that negotiations be commenced in 


320 


THE DISASTER. 


less than forty-eight hours. General Boyer had been ap- 
pointed on the spot to proceed to the King of Prussia at 
Versailles. 

“It is disastrous, disastrous!” repeated Jacquemere. 

On the previous day, after hearing the confidences of 
Boyer, he leaned towards an accord with the enemy. His 
opinions were changed by the last influence which acted 
upon him. 

When Laune knew the decision of the council, a great 
shudder passed over him, his complexion turned green under 
a flow of bile. However, he straightened himself up. What 
was the good of pouring one’s self forth in words? Dis- 
cipline stifled revolt. The bitter consciousness which he had 
of the situation lightened him to his duty — to serve without 
swerving, with the straightness of a steel instrument. 

But Charlys cried : 

“ What responsibility they will bear before history ! 
They think to save the army and rest on a rotten plank which 
cracks under their feet. They will drown themselves, and we 
shall all drown with them — ^yes, drown in this mud ! ” 

With a gesture he indicated the slimy slough which 
stretched out under the window, the cloacae of the camps, 
Metz under the muddy water of its river, under the deluge. 

“ Gentlemen,” Floppe was saying after dinner, “ I have a 
sad piece of news : our eminent chief. Colonel Laune, has 
the jaundice. As to Colonel Charlys, he appears to me to 
have the air of a conspirator. Bazaine has only to hold his 
ground well ! ” 

On the 11th the weather cleared up. Du Breuil went out, 
as much to escape from himself as to flee from his little bed- 
room, his comrades, and the Marshal’s closed house. The 
Ban Saint-Martin had become odious to him. He went to 
Metz. The coming and going would deceive his sick heart, 
his tortured spirit. He would call at the Bersheims’. Why 
had he fled from this hospitable house ? What wretched dis- 
grace withheld him, alternately repelled and attracted? On 
the one hand it was D’Avol, their misunderstanding increas- 
ing. It would be painful to him again to see the friend 
through whom he had suffered, was still suffering. But, on 
the other hand, it was Anine. She invited him by the ex- 
pressive grace of her silence, the serious charm of her smile. 
He saw her always so dignified, so proud — such as she had 


THE DISASTER. 


321 


appeared to him in the passage after D’Avol’s perfidious al- 
lusions to Mme. de Gui'onic. 

He asked himself what this immured young girl, mis- 
tress of her emotions, possessed of so sure a tact, of so even 
a disposition, thought and felt. More and more she seemed 
to him one of those balanced souls of Lorraine, a true daugh- 
ter of Metz-la-Pucelle. At times he confounded her with 
the city, the placid pride, the inviolate prestige of which she 
incarnated. When he heard the indignant complaints of 
the people of Metz trembling that their town might be 
the price of peace, it was of Anine that he thought. Metz 
in the hands of the enemy, Metz Prussian, it was Anine that 
he imagined with a feeling of terrible anguish, of jealous 
hatred. He recalled his adieu on the morning of Borny, 
and what he had then felt which was inexpressible. He re- 
called since then all the obscure working of his thought, in- 
visible, intangible, that which one neither pronounces nor 
confesses. At the very name of Anine he became sad; he 
felt nothing bitter, but something serious and agitated, which 
descended into the depths of his being. Then he braced him- 
self up and shut himself up in so penetrating an emotion 
that it became painful. For days afterwards he avoided the 
remembrance with mistrustful reserve, as though he feared 
to profane it. 

Upon reaching the Porte de France, a very ruddy, white* 
haired doctor was coming out — hallo ! it was Pere Riscard — 
swooped down upon him, waving his stick with his abrupt- 
ness of an old punchinello, the hump of which he only lacked. 

“ Splendid news, friend ! Go to Metz ! Everything is 
topsy-turvy ! ” 

Without wishing to say anything more he skipped away.^ 
On the Pont des Morts an officer of the Zouaves of the 
Guard, who was going at full speed, stopped quite out of 
breath to cry : 

“ Saved, Major — saved ! And it is the rabble which has 
come to our assistance. They are voyous who deliver us ! ” 

“ What rabble What ” 

“ The population of Paris has risen en masse and has 
crushed the Prussians. There is a despatch. Where is it? 
Pm in search of it. But at the Ban Saint-Martin, Major, 
you must have seen it ? ” 

He continued on his way. Passers-by questioned Du 


322 


THE DISASTER. 


Breuil, groups of people murmured at all the corners of the 
streets. Women spoke with abrupt volubility. A large 
numbers of people — soldiers and inhabitants of Metz — were 
formed in a circle round a corporal of the line. 

“ The despatch ! ” they cried to him. “ Bead ! ” 

Du Breuil elbowed his way into the crowd. 

I copied it,” said the corporal, excited by the impor- 
tance which he was assuming, “ from a piece of paper held 
by an officer, who himself had copied it I know not where.” 

“ Bead ! read ! ” cried the crowd. 

The corporal read: 

“ Three victories before Paris. One hundred and eighty 
thousand men hors de combat. Prussian army in retreat on 
Chalons. Francs-tireurs of the Vosges and Franche-Comte 
have recaptured Luneville. They march on Nancy. Let 
Metz hold its ground ! 

“ (Signed) Bazaine.” 

There was a burst of cheers, bravos, and cries. Divided 
between absurd hope and passionate incredulity, Du Breuil 
had turned round to look at the feverish faces, agitated with 
expectation, curiosity, and blind faith. The least expressive 
— those, even, that were ossified by old age — ^were all expres- 
sive of passionate souls, and some bordered on frenzy and 
madness. The exaltation of the town, which increased the 
more he proceeded on his way, was painful to him. Every- 
where were gesticulating National Guards under arms. This 
bubbling froth on the fire would fall flat as soon as the cold 
truth was known. 

After being stopped ten times, forced to reply to ques- 
tions, he reached Bersheim’s residence. Little Thibaut, pale 
and thin — where were his cheeks rosy as an apple ? — was play- 
ing with some tadpoles which were swarming in a large tub. 
Barrels near called to mind the threat of bombardment on 
September 16 th, the precautions which had been taken; the 
water in them had stagnated, had become the colour of a 
dead leaf. 

“Bonjour, m’sieur!” The youngster made the military 
salute. “ My little sister is very ill.” 

Don’t bother the gentleman ! ” 

Louise, enormous and near her confinement, rushed out of 


THE DISASTER. 


323 


the laundry. Du Breuil questioned her. Alas! yes, her 
little daughter had a violent fever. “ It is this offensive air. 
A child, too, who was so healthy at the farm 1 ” Three wet- 
nurses were dead in the neighbouring houses. . . . No more 
milk or baker’s bread! One met many little coffins in the 
streets. Everywhere were black dresses and closed shops 
with the notice “ Pour cause de deces ” stuck on the shut- 
ters. And to think that the Prussians, nice and warm, were 
stuffing themselves with saucine aux poix behind their shel- 
ters. “ I have seen some prisoners, sir. It is disgusting ! 
How fat they are ! ” 

A fit of sobbing suffocated her. She returned into her 
laundry. 

In the meantime old Lisbeth, with exclamations, was in- 
troducing Du Breuil. “ Had he, then, been ill that they saw 
him no more? It was true the house was not lively. He 
would find the ambulance half empty, but not because the 
patients were cured, ord ! ” The old Captain, that brave 
fellow who was so resigned ; the corporal wounded at Noisse- 
ville, who had seen Louise’s mother and father, the old Lar- 
rouys, killed in their farm ; the other, a little Lieutenant who 
resembled a girl — may the good God receive their souls! 
they had suffered much. 

One after the other. Grandmother Sophia, Mme. Bers- 
heim, and Anine, came into the drawing-room. All three 
associated, united in their devotion, and by their ministra- 
tion of charity, looked at him with such a similar expression 
of face that he was struck by it. He was moved to see to 
what a degree sorrow had made them identical. The joy of 
Maurice’s return had more quickly passed away than the 
sorrow of having lost Andre, and all these deaths in their, 
house, all these signs of anguish in the streets, in the quarter, 
in the town, in the camps, had filled them with horror. Their 
dry eyes seemed incapable of shedding more tears. While 
in the case of Grandmother Sophia her features retained a 
look of admirable good-nature, one read in the beautiful 
clear eyes of Mme. Bersheim a revolt which religion could 
not assuage. Sudden emotion had transfigured Anine. She 
only gave Du Breuil one look, but it was eloquent; and he 
retained from the brief clasp of their hands an expression 
of rapture, confidence; the joy which he felt from it was 
grave and manly. The three women in mourning still looked 


324 


THE DISASTER. 


at him, appeared to wait, to hope for a word of hope from 
him, an energetic act, no matter what, to ease the tragic des- 
tiny which was crushing them all. He felt his powerlessness 
cruelly. 

“ How is Maurice? ” 

“ They have — what do you call it ? — reincorporated him,” 
said Mme. Bersheim, “ in a regiment of the line in camp 
at Sablon. He is on duty. You won’t see him to-day.” 

“ And D’Avol ? ” he asked. 

“ Almost cured. He rejoins his regiment to-morrow,” 
said the grandmother. 

Silence, as heavy as a reproach, again reigned. Loud 
voices in discussion came from the garden. 

“ You will find many of your comrades with my husband,” 
continued Mme. Bersheim. “ They are holding a great meet- 
ing.” 

“ You will not be one too many there, if it is only to 
counsel calmness and judgment,” said Anine. 

She pulled up a blind, pushed open the window. Du 
Breuil saw a stormy gathering; disquieted and cordial faces 
turned towards him. The discussion continued just as high 
and as loud. He shook people by the hands. D’Avol pre- 
tended not to see him — perhaps he was really absorbed by his 
conversation with Gex — he let go his hand as though he 
were an indifferent person, then in astonishment said : 

“Hullo, Pierre! You are, then, of our number? In 
your absence we have sown.” 

He turned toward Gex : 

“ Changarnier is too old. Canrobert alone is our man. 
Do you think he will consent ? ” 

Gex, who was prudent, and who had come there to see 
which way the wind was blowing, replied: 

“ Rest assured that Bazaine will resign in favour of no- 
body. In consequence, acceptation on the part of Canrohert 
appears to me impossible. His loyalty, his chivalrous char- 
acter, his respect for discipline, will not suffer any false 
situation.” 

Comte de Cussac approached. D’Avol sounded him about 
Ladmirault, and received the same reply. However, notwith- 
standing Barrus’ interruptions, Carrouge was railing against 
the Provisional Government. 

“ It is shameful,” the old Commander of the Imperial 


THE DISASTER. 


825 


Guard was saying, shameful, that these men of September 
4th should choose the time at which the enemy crowds native 
territory to make a revolution ! ” 

Barrus, his eyes ablaze, his voice ringing, protested : 

“ The sword of France was lying in the mud. These men 
have picked it up to strike the enemy. No one has over- 
thrown the Empire. It has fallen of itself, like a thing 
which is rotten.” 

“You speak like a demagogue!” cried Carrouge. 

“I speak as a patriot. All France has pronounced 
against it; we alone still recognise it.” 

Carrouge declared : 

“We are bound by our oath ! ” 

“Our oath to whom? To an Emperor who is prisoner? 
To an Empress in flight ? Are we the soldiers of a man or of 
a country? Where is France — at Wilhelmshohe? at Hast- 
ings ? ” 

“ Barrus is right,” intervened Bersheim. “ If there is no 
longer an Empire, the country remains! How does the 
Marshal’s oath prevent him from carrying out his military 
duties? Whatever their political opinions may be, soldiers 
should only have one idea, that of leaving Metz, and avoid by 
all means the shameful capitulation which is being pre- 
pared.” 

It was to this point, with his obstinate good sense, that 
he brought the discussion, ever ready to wander at the mercy 
of sterile recriminations. 

“We are agreed upon that,” growled Carrouge. “We 
must make a way out at all cost ! ” 

“ Let us be practical,” cried an enthusiastic carabineer. 
“ Those who wish to force Bazaine hold up their hands.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said another — slim Captain de 
Serres, of D’Avol’s battery — “ not the word ‘ force.’ You 
can only mean moral pressure, respectfully consistent with 
discipline. Moreover, we have recognised that general offi- 
cers alone have a right to make an application to the Mar- 
shal. Let us recruit them as soon as possible.” 

Lieutenant Thomas, faithful to the hierarchy, his eyes 
redder than ever, nodded his head. A Captain in the En- 
gineers, with an eager, sad face, then spoke. His sentiments 
were elevated, but the declamatory way in which he delivered 
them marred the hard things he was saying : 


326 


THE DISASTER. 


“ For a long time discerning eyes had seen Bazaine’s 
game. In addition to being incapable, he was a traitor. 
The pressure which he exercised over the newspapers, the 
systematic demoralization which he was propagating in 
the army, left no illusions as to his object — to restore the 
Empire, so as to derive profit from it. It was therefore 
necessary to act, but to act at once. After the 13th a sortie 
would be impossible ; the army was too enfeebled. What was 
the good of recruiting new Generals, in losing time ? Num- 
bers would do nothing. One voice was sufiicient, provided it 
spoke plainly. If Bazaine lent a deaf ear, well, they would 
offer the supreme command to others ! ” 

“Will you come to the great meeting?” he asked. 
“ Time is pressing. It isn’t in three days, it is to-morrow 
that Generals who have heart ought to speak to the Mar- 
shal!” 

“ Well said, Rossel! ” cried D’Avol. 

Another Captain, whose name was Boyenval, named two 
Generals, and offered to make an immediate application to 
them. He set off, accompanying Rossel, the carabineer, De 
Serres, and a few others, young men who talked loud and 
made their swords rattle. Gex and Cussac left shortly after- 
wards. 

Complaints were still made. Carrouge, who was very 
animated, was listening, without hearing the complaints of 
an old citizen of Metz, M. Krudger, whose son was one of 
the most active members of the Municipal Council. 

“ Compare these two sheets of to-day’s Independant de 
la Moselle!^’ he was saying, with exasperation. “Here are 
the proofs, slashed by the Censor, and here is a copy of the 
newspaper, mutilated, with spaces. If this continues, the 
Metz newspapers will shortly appear in white. Coffinieres 
and Bazaine only tolerate matter communicated by them- 
selves, false news and rectifications to the enemy’s advantage. 
Compare. Look ! ” 

“ Upon my faith 1 ” cried Bersheim, “ the suppressions 
are instructive. Listen to this: ^ News which has been 
brought is good — very good. Let pessimists, then, have con- 
fidence, and let us no longer hear pronounced that word 
“ capitulation,” which makes one blush.’ Struck out I 
Why?” 

“Worse still!” continued M. Krudger. “An article by 


THE DISASTER. 


327 


Colonel Humbert, secretary at the £cole d’ Application 
library, showed that the situation is not desperate, that 
France is arming. Coffinieres has just destroyed it on the 
proofs. And, what you would never believe. Colonel Hum- 
bert only took his pen in hand after the visit of an officer 
of the staff, who came on behalf of Bazaine to ask for Thiers’ 
work in which the capitulations of Baylen, Genoa, and 
Hantzic are mentioned I ” 

There were a dozen officers there, some resting on 
crutches, others with their arms in slings, still pale, owing to 
their sojourn in the ambulance. They all looked at one 
another in disgust. D’Avol looked at Du .Breuil and 
chuckled. 

“ A pretty commission ! Perhaps you know the officer ? 
One of your comrades ? ” 

More dryly than he intended, Du Breuil replied: 

“ I don’t know him. At any rate, he is not responsible. 
He obeyed orders.” 

“ Yes, yes, we know — passive obedience ! It takes you a 
long way! ... As for me, I declare that when the yoke is 
shameful one throws it off. Don’t you recognise that at 
the present time a sortie, with or without hope, can alone 
save the honour of the flag? Yes or no? ” 

De Breuil knit his brow. He foresaw the shock. His 
loving heart, as much as his amour-propre, which was 
wounded to the quick, was suffering because of it. Why was 
D’Avol passionate to this extent? 

I recognise it,” he conceded at last. 

Then, you approve of the steps which certain Generals 
are going to take in regard to Bazaine ? ” 

“ I approve of everything which is compatible with dis- 
cipline, nothing else.” 

“ Then,” said D’Avol, “ you blame us for substituting a 
better leader should Bazaine refuse to make a sortie? You 
would blame us for preferring revolt to opprobrium— in a 
word, you would, if necessary, capitulate ? ” 

Du Breuil turned. Anine, accompanied by her mother, 
was behind them. Their presence made his blood boil. He 
drew himself up under the insult. 

I have replied to you. If Bazaine, or a leader properly 
invested with power, leads us to the opening, I shall be at 

my post ! ” 

22 


328 


THE DISASTER. 


In the meantime you cross your arms. You say to 
yourself, ^ I am screened. I obey. They order me to march, 
and I march; they order me to give up my arms, and I give 
them up.’ Discipline always! And don’t you think that 
above this slothful, blind, soulless discipline there is a higher 
law, the feeling of honour ? ” 

“ Stop ! ” said Du Breuil with firmness. Do not let us, 
if you please, use such a word in a courteous discussion. I 
believe I understand honour as well as you.” 

D’Avol cast a black look at him, but became silent. His 
arm in the sling trembled. The silence was accompanied by 
a feeling of great uneasiness. Mme. Bersheim and her 
husband appeared very troubled. Anine remained impassible 
as though she heard nothing. 

“ It is certain,” said M. Krudger, conciliating, “ that we 
can hold out still longer than is thought. Our resources are 
going to be augmented by requisitions ordered in the town; 
henceforth neither corn nor flour will leave Metz. The ap- 
proaching distribution of cartes de consommation will regu- 
late waste. It seems to me,” he added, looking at his watch, 
“ that the meeting of officers of the National Guard at the 
Hotel de Ville is lasting a long time.” 

At this moment Gustave Le Martrois came running up, 
so out of breath that the glasses of his spectacles were cov- 
ered with moisture. He announced with an inspired air 
that a riot was being prepared, and he appeared quite proud 
of it, because he professed advanced Republican opinions, 
to the alarm of his mother, the prudent Mme. Le Martrois. 

. . . . The delegates of the officers of the National Guard, 
headed by the Mayor, had just, he explained, gone to the 
Governor’s to obtain, if possible — his air was ironical — sure 
information. . . . These rumours of negotiations, this pre- 
tended great victory — all this maddened the town. During 
this time, one of the officers living at the common house, had 
shattered the Emperor’s bust, and then, in the midst of ap- 
plause and whistling, had wrenched off the eagle of the flag, 
and had thrown it on the square. They were hustled a little, 
and in the row one of their acquaintances, M. Dumaine, had 
just received some good knocks. 

“Well done!” said Bersheim. “The fat egoist! the 
monopolizer! Will you believe it, that at the last domicil- 
iary visit they discovered in his cellar more than thirty-six 


THE DISASTER. 


329 


sacks of flour, corn, barrels of herrings, hams, baskets of eggs, 
preserves. . . . Enough to feed a regiment. He was gorging 
himself in secret without giving anything to the poor or to 
the wounded. We let him know that, so much had his con- 
duct revolted us, he was never to put his foot in the house 
again ! ” 

Carrouge, who was furious, asked Gustave for details. 
The eagle wrenched off and thrown on the square roused his 
indignation. 

“ Brawlers ! ” he said, hooking on his sword. “ I’m going 
there.” 

They could not retain him; but D’Avol and old M. 
Krudger, out of precaution, went with him. All the ofiicers 
present preserved a constrained air. That eagle, shining 
on the staff of the flag, had crossed Italy, Spain, Germany, 
all the battle-fields of Europe, with its golden wings open. 
Du Breuil, although he thought himself resigned to the 
catastrophe in which the dynasty had foundered for the 
second time, felt the affront and murmured: 

Anarchy is commencing ? And they wish true soldiers 
to strike a blow at discipline? Come, it is criminal! How 
is it that D’Avol does not see into what a terrible mess, into 
what a state of chaos, a military conspiracy may lead us ? ” 

It seemed to him that Anine, anxious, was staring at him, 
trying to penetrate, to understand him. Under her apparent 
calm he thought her wavering and irresolute. D’Avol’s 
heroism — a facile heroism, all nerves and bile, pride and 
bravado — perhaps captivated her! But perhaps also, pos- 
sessed of uprightness and good sense, she understood what 
a painful sacrifice those who wished to preserve to the end 
inflexible respect for rule were making? Doubtless she was 
asking herself, like himself, where duty lay. 

In these troubled hours, how to recognise duty? Above 
all, how to do it? How cruel to seek for it in the midst of 
bitterness, recrimination, and reproaches ! How painful was 
this debated duty which brought old friends face to face, 
which rent the most sincere consciences! D’Avol? . . . 
Restaud? . . . Discipline? Honour? 


330 


THE DISASTER. 


CHAPTER V. 

On the 12th Du Breuil read on the new sheet of his cal- 
endar: Bataille d/Elchingen, 1806.” What a reproach 
these glorious memories, these radiant names! Yesterday, 
Massena; to-day, Ney, the hero of Moscow — Hey, who at 
Waterloo said: “I would that all these bullets might enter 
my stomach! ” Hey, who would rather have been blown up 
on a powder-magazine than surrender! 

The situation became worse from hour to hour. In a 
communique the Marshal had contradicted the alleged great 
victory. On the previous day all distribution of food to the 
horses had ceased; in two days bread would be lacking. 
Frederick Charles had at first refused to allow Boyer to 
leave, then, upon receiving a favourable note from Versailles, 
had consented. His officer sent to parley had just arrived. 
Boyer was authorized to proceed before the King; an ex- 
press train was in waiting at Ars; the Prince’s Aide-de- 
camp would accompany him. 

The General left about noon. 

“A fine opportunity,” said Erancastel, “of showing the 
Prussians his new stars ! ” 

“ Pooh ! shooting stars ! ” said Floppe mischievously. 

However, the council, convoked by the Marshal in con- 
sequence of Frederick Charles’s primary refusal, continued 
its sitting. In the presence of this favourable solution, 
which was in accordance with the wishes of almost all the 
members, they only had to deal with the recent manifesta- 
tions in the town. Frossard and Leboeuf violently demanded 
that the eagle be replaced on the fiagstaff of the Hotel de 
Ville. People attached too much importance to that occur- 
rence, replied Coffinieres. A written order was necessary. 
But Bazaine kept silent. Coffinieres then again asked that 
the lot of the town should be separated from that of the 
army. On October 20th, he could no longer give up the re- 
sources of the fort. 

“ Oh ! oh ! your master is getting excited,” Floppe was 
saying to Captain Chagres. “ One more that Bazaine has 
nicely fooled. You see it clearly now, eh? You’re talking 
loud. You want to save Metz. Too late, mon gros! If we 
surrender, you will surrender also.” 


THE DISASTER. 


331 


Chagres shrugged his shoulders. He was a very brave 
man, but discussion wearied him. The other day he had 
kicked a brawler down the stairs of his office. 

Boyer was followed in thought by many in the evening. 
Would he succeed in this strange mission, of which the 
wisest only thought with uneasiness? It was said that he 
was going to propose to the King of Prussia the following 
clauses: the town left alone to defend itself; evacuation of 
the wounded ; departure of the army with arms and baggage 
for the South of France or Algeria, under the condition of 
remaining there until the end of the war. . . . But why 
should the conqueror accept such offers? Through human- 
ity? — a sortie, even unfruitful, probably costing the Prus- 
sians twenty to thirty thousand men. That was very senti- 
mental for an enemy which only had results in view, which 
was sacrificing everything for an object. ... In order to 
gain a political advantage, since the Army of the Rhine 
alone was capable of re-establishing social order? A doubt- 
ful and precarious hope. In case the King and his coun- 
sellors welcomed him, which was improbable, would the army 
follow its leaders? 

Nevertheless, so intense was the desire for hope that finely 
tempered souls — those of solid courage, men whose honour 
one could not suspect — came to cling to this last means of 
salvation. The state of fever in which each one was living 
gave birth to nightmares. All normal life was abolished. 
It was necessary to make allowance for these unique circum- 
stances : this blockaded army, kept in ignorance of the tragic 
events which succeeded each other around her, passing from 
starts of delirious hope to the most dejected prostration. 
Worse than the total absence of news were the foolish 
rumours, the great invisible breaths which made people hesi- 
tate. No hope from outside; a divided Government which 
was itself fleeing before the enemy, or blockaded in Paris, 
which certainly could not hold out. Assuredly, had they 
known of tl^ heroic defence of the capital, the desperate 
efforts of the Provisional Government, all these African, 
Italian, and Crimean Generals, these glorious chiefs of the 
supreme council would not have been struck by such an 
insensibility of military honour, by such paralysis of will. 
Many came to ask themselves if a fresh butchery was neces- 
sary. Without horses to drag the cannon, without cavalry, 


332 


THE DISASTER. 


forced with nothing but foot soldiers to pass beyond a ter- 
rible circle of shells and balls, was it not going to a mon- 
strous massacre? 

Captivity only presented to men of heart the image of a 
worse catastrophe, the shame of a humiliation to which death 
was preferable. Why, then, refuse an honourable convention 
which would allow them to leave with arms and baggage? 
To gain time seemed the most urgent necessity. . . . Could 
not they also believe — they had such a desire for belief — that 
the Commanders-in-Chief yielded to a humane duty in striv- 
ing to safeguard this lamentable crowd of soldiers, emaci- 
ated, bowed, consumptive by hundreds, not only from the 
sufferings of captivity, but from the horrors of massacre? 
Was it improbable to suppose that the.se Marshals and these 
Generals had felt some pity before the innumerable faces 
of their soldiers, those yellow, pale faces upon which one 
could read so strange an anxiety? . . . Alas! in that case 
what a lack of perspicacity, what a sad blindness! To have 
allowed themselves to be run to earth in this way! 

Because the misfortune was, thought Du Breuil, Restaud, 
Laune, and many others, that these humane considerations, 
which were justifiable, if they wished to forget what per- 
sonal ulterior motives were mixed up in them, rested on the 
iridescence of a soap-bubble. If Bismarck burst it by a 
breath, everything vanished. The enemy, faithful to its 
tactics, would have gained time, and the Army of the Rhine, 
sliding down the slope simply by the weight of its dead 
horses and its men without strength, would awaken at the 
bottom of the tomb. 

Boyer was expected in the evening of the 13th. What 
probability was there, however, that he could return so soon ? 
Detained by his duty, Du Breuil’s only diversion the whole 
day was the interminable conversations of his neighbours. 
He was sickened by them. He knew beforehand what each 
one was going to say; the follies, the tics of all were famil- 
iar to him. Massoli, who expectorated, annoyed him as 
much as Francastel, squinting with satisfaction at his curled 
moustache. They were sad hours, hearing and seeing the 
falling rain. It unwound from the horizon its skein of gray 
thread; one heard the sobbing of the overflowing spouts. 
And Du Breuil thought of the sticky bivouacs, of the little 
tents soaked through, of the soldiers lying upon straw which 


THE DISASTER. 


333 


had become dung, of those who, to find wood, plundered the 
last carpentry, of those who, observing a tacit armistice, 
crouched in the trenches of the outposts, looking from under 
the pointed hoods of their cloaks at the enemy’s helmets, 
also motionless in the misty, watery distance. 

He said to himself : “ What am I doing here ? Like the 
others, I await Boyer’s return, after having waited for that 
of Bourbaki.” He reflected upon the journey of Bazaine’s 
private counsellor. What emotions might be felt by a 
French General passing across his country in the midst of 
fire and blood, under the guidance of a courteous but in- 
flexible guardian, who would prevent him from exchanging 
the slightest word with his countrymen! Doubtless he was 
preparing the arguments and persuasive words which would 
entice old William and his suspicious bull-dogs, Moltke and 
Bismarck. 

Would he even return? What had happened to Bour- 
baki, the dupe of a similar mission? — Bourbaki, whose in- 
explicable departure and absence had maddened Metz to 
such an extent that a recent deputation ascertained that 
the General was not imprisoned at the lllcole d’ Application 
by order of Bazaine. 

The rain fell — fell without stopping. Du Breuil watched 
it with a feeling of distress. It would contribute to their 
loss as much as famine. It weakened the soul, extinguished 
the fire of revolt. History is a witness to the fact that revo- 
lutions have been drowned by a storm. What was one to say 
of these torrents, the running of which, night and day, was 
doing away with all energetic action? Du Breuil thought 
that the conspiracy was in the water. To go from camp to 
camp, to recruit adherents, the mud must not stick to the 
soles of their boots; they must not be blinded by the wind 
and the rain. The Marshal, in his warm house, could play 
at billiards at his ease, while the leaders of the great meet- 
ing — the Rossels, the Boyenvals, D’Avol, Carrouge, and 
Charlys — soaked, covered with mud, worn out with rage and 
fatigue, struggled hard. 

That first measure, upon the occasion of which they had 
clearly specified that all the forms of discipline would be 
respected, that visit to Bazaine of a few Generals in a body, 
had ended in nothing. In vain had Boisjol, eloquent in his 
roughness, said a few words, stifled by emotion; in vain had 


834 


THE DISASTER. 


Chenot hinted with good-nature of the advantages of a 
sortie. Bazaine, surprised at the implicit censure of this 
demonstration, had dissembled, had put on his air of plain 
dealing : “ He had decided not to capitulate, he gave them 
formal assurance of that. General Boyer was going to draw 
up at Versailles a military convention which would allow 
the army to leave the fort honourably. If he was not suc- 
cessful, the Marshal agreed with them that a sortie must be 
made at all costs.’’ And, taking the map, he improvised a 
plan of march, on both banks of the Moselle, this time in a 
southerly direction. He adjourned immediate measures, de- 
claring himself ready, adding that the situation of the army 
was not very agreeable, but that if another person, whoever 
he might be, wished to take charge of it, he would willingly 
abandon it to him. 

“ Yes, count upon that ! ” Carrouge had murmured. 

He confided to Hu Breuil that they were going to look 
for a chief who would consent to lead the army and the corps 
of officers. Supported by the adhesion of the Generals, who 
were decided to break a way out, he would go to the Marshal, 
beg him to place himself at their head, or if not to authorize 
them to act. Either the Marshal would take the direction of 
the movement, or his very refusal would condemn him. They 
would be released from him by the words which he would 
deliver; the essential rules of discipline remained uninjured. 

. . . But Du Breuil was watching the rain, which inspired 
doubt and discouragement in him. 

“ Ah, if Bourbaki was here ! ” Carrouge was repeating. 
“7/e would have got us out of the difiiculty! It is true we 
have Deligny. He has thoroughly studied the sortie ; he has 
his plan. . . . But will he take the command ? It is a grave 
responsibility.” 

Ah no ! thought Du Breuil, Deligny was not willing. All 
those they put forward would excuse themselves — Cissey like 
Deligny, Ladmirault like Cissey, Canrobert like Ladmirault. 

. . . Canrobert? . . . his rank, his seniority, his character, 
would have certainly marked him out for everybody’s suf- 
frages; but the attitude of effacement which he had taken 
up from the first, and the votes which he had made, bound 
him down. Besides, his loyalty would not permit of in- 
trigues and ulterior designs; he replied for Bazaine as for 
himself: he afiirmed that they would not capitulate. . . . 


THE DISASTER. 335 

No, no! no chief would take the supreme command. Every- 
body was ready to obey, nobody to command. 

Rain, always rain. ... It entered at the windows, flowed 
under the door, marked the floor at each entry of dripping 
officers. It finished by lulling Massoli to sleep with its sweet, 
monotonous sound. He was sleeping when they came to 
wake him. The Marshal asked for some confidential par- 
ticulars about the southern route. Charlys was charged to 
send emissaries to assure themselves again of the state of the 
defences on the Chateau- Salins, Nomeny, and Coin-sur- 
Seille roads. Erancastel, who was returning from the Mar- 
shal’s, announced that they were going to call upon all the 
horses of the inhabitants to yoke to the artillery. Du Breuil, 
sceptical — he knew these false departures so well — heard 
Carrouge’s peevish voice like an obsession: 

Yes, yes, count upon that ! ” 

At reveille on the following day Frisch spoke to him of 
distant reports heard in the night. Jubault, he said, pre- 
tended it was thunder, because there had been a violent 
storm, interspersed with hail. But no, it must have really 
been cannon. And Frisch hazarded: 

“ It perhaps was an army coming to their assistance ? ” 
Du Breuil smiled sadly, and without replying tore the 
sheet for the previous day’s date from the calendar. It 
brought to light the date October 14th, 1806: Jena. Napo- 
leon’s withering campaign — in seventeen days the Prussian 
monarchy destroyed, crushed! . . . What new victory on the 
days following was going to strike him in the face? What 
glorious feat at arms would make him further taste the 
ignominy of his situation? Bersheim had lent him books 
to kill the insomnia of his nights and the emptiness of his 
days. The “ Memoires ” of Napoleon filled his soul with 
bitter home-sickness. What an epoch! How he would have 
liked to have lived in it! Never had a Marshal of France 
dreamed of making a compromise in this manner. Dupont 
at Baylen had only surrendered twenty-five thousand men, 
and his very name was an opprobrium! 

The distant cannonade still sounded. Some supposed it 
was the bombardment of Thionville, others guessed of 
Longwy. Decherac, resuming duty at headquarters — he was 
feted — brought news from Metz. Coffinieres, accused of 
duplicity and treason by an excited population, had had 


336 


THE DISASTER. 


enough of it. In a fit of temper he had just sent in his 
resignation to the Marshal. 

“ General Laveaucoupet will doubtless replace him ? ” 
risked Massoli. 

“ ISTo; the succession is too heavy for him to accept,” said 
Decherac. “ The Marshal will smooth Coffinieres down, and 
he will let himself be persuaded. This poor Governor is be- 
tween the hammer and the anvil. Metz reproaches him for 
being too imperialist, Bazaine and his lieutenants for being 
too Republican. He no longer knows to which to listen.” 

He related the troubles. Two days before, Coifinieres had 
notified to the committees on domiciliary visits, which had 
met at the Hotel de Ville, that the result of their operations 
would be placed, not in the town granaries, but in the mili- 
tary magazines. There was a great to-do, especially as the 
Governor had announced the near departure of the army and 
the inevitable bombardment which would follow, adding: 

“ Consequently, one must expect terrible things ! ” 

“ What is more,” continued Decherac, “ Coffinieres yester- 
day informed the Municipal Council of the shocking state 
of the resources of the town and of the army. Thereupon 
indignation and stupor of these gentlemen, who express their 
painful astonishment in an address. Coffinieres replied to- 
day by an acknowledgment of the Government of the Na- 
tional Defence. The manifestations still last.” He added: 

The women of Metz, who have been so admirable towards 
our wounded, show themselves the most excited. The Na- 
tional Guards are in a state of effervescence. At this very 
moment they are asking Coffinieres to guard the forts. Their 
representatives are going to ask Changarnier to place him- 
self at their head. ‘We are betrayed, sold!’ they cry. A 
wreath of immortelles has been laid on the head of Fabert’s 
statue, and a flag has been placed in his hand.” 

“ It’s a bear-garden,” said Massoli. “ If I were Governor ' 
of Metz ” 

Decherac looked at him with wide-open mouth. On the 
day he was wounded, August 31st, he had left Massoli with 
jet-black hair. The Massoli who was speaking to him now 
had hair completely white. His astonishment caused 
laughter. 

Bersheim and M. Krudger, whose large beard was pearled 
with rain, and other Metz citizens, arrived. They wished 


THE DISASTER. 


837 


to see the Marshal. They heard detonations in the distance. 
Did they not recognise the noise of the fusillades and that 
of the mitrailleuses ? 

Certainly, affirmed M. Krudger, the Prussians had been 
beaten under Paris, and put to flight. 

A Lieutenant in the National Guard was repeating as in 
a transport of fever: 

“ Our brothers — our brothers of the Loire ! The army of 
succour ! It is flghting at Gravelotte ! Gentlemen, to arms ! 
to arms ! ” 

Two of the leading citizens were at last introduced into 
the presence of the Marshal. Bersheim conflrmed to Du 
Breuil the extraordinary agitation of Metz. On the evening 
of the previous day, about nine o’clock, a rough crowd was 
stationed on the Place de I’Hotel de Ville. Coffinieres had 
appeared before the council, swearing on his honour and on 
his sword that he would never capitulate. 

“ At ten o’clock the council rose ; the last strokes of the 
curfew-bell sounded; the groups kept silence; the gates of 
the Hotel de Ville were opened. Our venerable Mayor, bare- 
headed, surrounded by his colleagues, stood on the flrst steps 
of the staircase of honour. Men holding lanterns lit up the 
group. In an agitated voice he read aloud the address which 
he was charged to transmit jbo Coffinieres. I assure you it 
was poignant.” He added : “ There is the council of defence 
and the committee of supervision over supplies constituted 
at last! Five commissions make domiciliary visits. It is 
quite time ! ” 

The Lieutenant of the National Guard said in a state of 
frenzy to Du Breuil: 

“ Bazaine betrays. Major! He dines with Frederick 
Charles every day. One of my friends was walking on the 
evening of the day before yesterday near the Frescati farm. 
Near the railway he heard horses’ hoofs. He hid himself 
in a ditch. Three horsemen came up. On a level with the 
crossing one of them said, ‘ It is here. Marshal, that we must 
dismount.’ An orderly led the horses, while the others went 
in the direction of the Jouy road. My friend heard the rum- 
bling of a carriage which stopped and, turning round, carried 
away the Marshal and his accomplices.” 

Bersheim shook his head. Forsooth, everything was pos- 
sible. The fever which made one see ambushes, perfidy, and 


338 


THE DISASTER. 


treason everyivhere seized him also. Had they not forbidden 
the gerants of the newspapers, under pain of their sheets 
being suppressed, to announce Boyer’s departure? 

The two leading citizens left the Marshal’s little satis- 
fied. Bazaine did not think that the cannonade indicated a 
battle. Doubtless the Prussians bombarded Verdun. He 
had replied to one of his interlocutors, who had reported to 
him supplies of corn : 

“Yes, I know where there’s wheat — in Beauce; and oxen 
— in Normandy ! ” 

They left in the breaks which had brought them. M. 
Krudger’s white beard floated in the wind. . . . 

“News of Boyer, gentlemen!” said Colonel Jacquemere. 
“ An officer sent on parley has just brought a despatch dated 
from Versailles, announcing his arrival after a journey of 
forty-eight hours. He is going to see M. Bismarck immedi- 
ately.” 

Surprise and disappointment were great. Boyer not 
being able to arrive before two or three days, the imminence 
of measures to be taken struck the most indolent. Massoli 
leant over the map upon which they were tracing the works 
built by the enemy. Francastel was recopying a note on the 
positions of the German troops. They spoke again of the 
sortie. They were going to pay the October and November 
pay in advance. 

“Eh! oh!” said Floppe jeeringly. “The Marshal looks 
after the cash! That is easy to understand. The quarters 
pay of 180,000 francs a year are good to receive.” 

These remarks ill beguiled the expectation and anguish. 
They felt too well that the fate of the army depended on 
Boyer’s success, and already two words whispered by Ba- 
zaine’s staff — “Too late!” — sounded the knell of last hopes 
and vain efforts. The agony of the Army of the Rhine had 
commenced. Marauding soldiers entered Metz in spite of 
the closing of the gates and the interdictions, and forcibly 
took bread from the bakers. Many prowled before the 
houses, and Bersheim had seen one of them fall down 
through weakness in his courtyard. 

On the 15th and the 16th Du Breuil was consumed by 
expectation and inaction. It was a gloomy Sunday in his 
bedroom. Happily, Judin was coming to see him. Metz was 
calming down a little. The Marshal, having found nobody 


THE DISASTER. 


339 


willing to replace Coffinieres, had obliged him, in amiable 
terms, to take back his resignation. “ Both of us,” he wrote 
to him, “ have done everything it was possible to do in the 
spirit of the regulations. . . .” 

The spirit of the regulations? Come, now! The dead 
letter. To dare to speak of vain formulae when the life of 
an army, the salvation of a fortress, were at stake! . . . Du 
Breuil, besides, was tired of hearing the town spoken about, 
the grievances of the town which in time irritated him. 
Was it not the army, after all, which had placed the forts 
in a state of defence, which by its presence had avoided a 
bombardment? He was more interested in the unfortunate 
soldiers, shivering with cold and dying with hunger in their 
bivouacs. Judin related to him the application of the dele- 
gates of the National Guard to Changarnier. The brave 
old fellow had disinclined them by the eulogy of Bazaine 
and an apology for discipline. Evidently, nobody would put 
himself forward. Cissey and Ladmirault, all those whom 
they had sounded, had withdrawn. The Marshal had re- 
ceived the officers of the National Guard, and repeated that, 
if they found his method of commanding bad, they had only 
to appoint another chief. To put a stop to the attempts of 
the ringleaders, knowing that they had drawn up a surprise 
plan for the occupation of the forts and the military posts 
in the town, he had summoned Captains Rossel and Boyen- 
val before him, admonished the first and put the second in 
prison at Saint-Quentin. 

Judin, who was walking up and down the bedroom, 
stopped before the ephemerides of the calendar. 

“October 16th, 1805: Prise d'Ulm, by the French. . . . 
The devil 1 ” he said. “ History has a cruel wit.” 

On the following day Du Breuil, whose anxiety was in- 
creasing hour after hour, was astonished to learn that the 
Marshal, sounded by Jarras on the necessity of opening out 
a passage, had replied that, the 18th and the 19th being the 
anniversaries of the battle of Leipsic, they could not fight 
on those days. June 18th, 1855, chosen by our allies the 
English as the anniversary of Waterloo, our attack by main 
force at Malakoff had failed. . . . Singular reply! . . . 
Superstition? An excuse for attempting nothing. 

At last, about three o’clock, Boyer arrived, and was 
closeted immediately with the Marshal. His journey had 


340 


THE DISASTER. 


again lasted forty-eight hours. When going, the train had 
been unable to pass a station beyond Chateau-Thierry, owing 
to the tunnels and the bridges being cut. The Prussian 
guard had conducted him to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, 
whence he had gone round Paris to reach Versailles. The 
same route was followed on the return journey. 

The news of his arrival spread like a train of powder. 
The anxious army wished to know its destiny. Generals 
and officers of all ranks thronged to headquarters; but Boyer 
showed himself very reserved on the reply given by the 
King, pretending to be fairly well satisfied, and to be count- 
ing on a favourable solution. As to information obtained 
on the subject of the state of France, he stated it was la- 
mentable. France was being dismembered by a horrible 
state of anarchy. The Government of the National Defence, 
already divided between Paris and Tours, was rending itself, 
even in Paris, to such a point that Gambetta and Keratry 
had had to make off in a balloon to escape the animosity of 
their colleagues and that of the population. The phantom 
of power established at Tours was fleeing to Toulouse — it 
was said even to Pau. The North asked for peace, Houen 
and Harve asked for Prussian garrisons; Lyons had pro- 
claimed a Revolutionary Government, Marseilles another; 
the Midi was trying to separate itself, the West held itself 
aside in the name of Catholic principles. A semblance of 
an army — forty thousand militia on the Loire — had just been 
defeated at Artenay, a few leagues from Orleans. A Na- 
tional Assembly was to result from the elections of October 
16th and 17th; but this decree having been cancelled, the 
elections remained postponed until the country was free. 
The dictatorship remained in the hands of Gambetta. To 
so many calamities had just been added the ingratitude of 
a country which owed France so much — Italy claimed pos- 
session of Nice and Savoy. 

On the 18th the council met to hear this heartrending 
recital, to know the result of the negotiations, and to come 
to a fresh decision. Bismarck did not wish to negotiate the 
fate of the army, except on the condition that it remained 
faithful to the Government of the Regency, which was alone 
capable of making peace and of re-establishing it. It was 
necessary, therefore, to address themselves to the Empress. 
General Boyer would set off immediately to beg her to again 


THE DISASTER. 


341 


take over the power, and to enter into 'pourparlers with head- 
quarters at Versailles. The army would assure her its sup- 
port through gratitude; would go with her to an open town, 
where they would convoke the former State bodies. The Im- 
perial Government would be restored, and peace signed there. 

Du Breuil and Decherac passed a mournful evening in 
Restaud’s room, each one completing what the other said, 
drawing a black and terrible picture of known miseries, 
alternately facing the funereal narrow way into which Ba- 
zaine had led the army, and which was blocked up by an 
unscalable cemetery wall. 

In short,” declared Du Breuil, “ Paris and her forts still 
hold out. As to the bad news spread about by Boyer, it all 
comes from a German source. He has not communicated to 
the council the newspapers which he brought back! . . . 
Was it because they mention the moderate acts of the Gov- 
ernment of the National Defence, and are not in accordance 
with his pessimistic narratives? You doubt?” he said, in 
answer to a gesture expressive of protest from Restaud. 

Well, it is true he has brought back two newspapers. The 
Marshal’s doctor has read them. ... I augur ill of a mission 
the account of which commences with a lie. Besides, has 
it been so difficult for him to question fellow-countrymen? 
He exchanged a few words upon the return journey with the 
Mayor of Bar-le-Duc. At Versailles his presence caused a 
manifestation at the Hotel des Reservoires, the rumour of 
the arrival of a Trench General having spread. They must 
have done everything to get information to him. A barber 
and an old female servant were placed at his disposal in tile 
house which he occupied. ... So bound to secrecy as he 
was, could he not obtain other details? But, after all, let 
us believe Boyer on parole. Are the conditions which he 
makes known any the less a lure ? What does Bismarck 
want? To draw us on until we are completely exhausted. 
Bazaine must be blinded by ambition or fascinated by dan- 
ger to judge otherwise.” 

“ Why? ” objected Decherac. Perhaps Bismarck’s prop- 
osition is our salvation. Reflect! In the present state of 
disorder the imperial restoration might offer enough advan- 
tages to Prussia to try to make it stable by her moderation.” 

Restaud ventured to say, but without conviction, and as 
though he was trying to persuade himself : 


342 


THE DISASTER. 


“ Since we have done so much to enter into this perilous 
path of negotiations, the Empress’s acceptation would save 
everything. We are not released from our oath; we have 
received no communication from the Provisional Govern- 
ment. If the Empress loyally places her trust in us, the army 
will follow this beautiful and unfortunate woman, and for 
my part ” 

“ But think, Restaud,” said Du Breuil, that our last 
hope vanishes if the Empress refuses! Do you think that 
Boyer has a chance of succeeding where Bourbaki doubtless 
failed? Because I augur no good from his silence. One 
must be very ill to believe in such fever-phantoms. In a 
few days’ time famine will revenge itself on this demoralized 
crowd, whose patience and resignation are exhausted. Bis- 
marck is playing with us like a cat plays with a mouse. And 
the stupid Bazaine, the blind council does not see it! . . . 
A week ago they decided that overtures should be com- 
menced within forty-eight hours, and that if the enemy’s 
conditions were not compatible with military honour, they 
would try to make a way through by force. . . . There are 
formal resolutions! To-day they recant. What is more, 
they cling to a broken branch — the fallen regime. They do 
not even consider the horror of a civil war, and in this crimi- 
nal proceeding not one asks himself whether the army will 
follow them.” 

“ Since the commanders of the army corps have this very 
day,” said Restaud, “ assembled the Generals, the chiefs of 
the corps and the departments, to unfold to them the state 
of affairs, and to have their opinion, we shall know it to- 
morrow.” 

“ Yes,” laughed Du Breuil, “ and they anticipate the 
Generals’ replies so well that, without waiting to know what 
those replies are, Bazaine, immediately after the meeting, 
asks Frederick Charles for Boyer’s safe-conduct.” 

The three officers exchanged reflections until two o’clock 
in the morning. Changarnier was present at the council on 
the invitation of Bazaine. His experience was precious ; 
they could take shelter behind it. 

“ Have you noticed,” said Du Breuil, “ that the Marshal 
has done everything to strike, to lower the morale of the 
army? Since the opening of the war our losses were care- 
fully stated, that we may know we have lost forty thousand 


THE DISASTER. 


343 


men, in addition to three hundred officers and twenty-four 
general officers! The enemy’s forces were enumerated in re- 
gard to the inferiority of ours 1 All the newspapers publish- 
ing by order the nomenclature, certainly exaggerated, of 
German siege works I And what of the official communi- 
cations made this very day to the troops — the enumeration 
in eighteen paragraphs of the said works, with the positions 
of the army corps 1 ” 

Add,” said Decherac, “ corruption by favours, medals 
and crosses given in profusion 1 ” 

“ Ah ! ” murmured Du Breuil despairingly, if the Mar- 
shal would still make a sortie ! ” 

Decherac sadly shook his head. 

“ It is already very late. In three or four days what will 
happen? Dissolution is commencing. Thousands of dis- 
banded men every night go beyond the outposts to dig the 
ground, to drag up potatoes. A kind of armistice reigns. 
At certain points the German firing has ceased; they con- 
fer with the enemy, who hold before our men the hope of im- 
mediate peace. In short, the soldier is disgusted; he’s had 
enough.” 

“ Let us try, and we shall see,” said Du Breuil. 

When Decherac and Restaud had gone, the declarations 
of the members of the council tormented him with heart- 
rending doubts. Ought they not to believe these men of 
tried bravery when they affirmed the impossibility of an at- 
tempt by main force? And in what terms? 

Frossard; “We cannot make a sortie.” 

Ladmirault: “We shall be brought back; we cannot 
count upon the troops, but I am ready to obey.” 

Canrobert: “It is escape, not a sortie. No hope of suc- 
cess ; at the end we await dispersion and disaster.” 

Soleille: “No sortie; nothing dismays him so much as 
the thought of the inevitable disorders which would follow. 
They will not even pass through the first lines of the enemy.” 

But why these diametrically opposite opinions? 

Leboeuf : “ He does not believe in success, but asks that 
they attempt a foolish but glorious thing ! ” 

Desvaux: “Let us make a sortie after having left our 
troops under Metz until they could no longer live; they can 
still demand of them a sacrifice ! ” 

Coffinieres : “ He repeats what he said before at the first 
23 


344 


THE DISASTER. 


conference — ^ If they could not obtain honourable condi- 
tions, they must try to make a way by force of arms ! ’ ” 

And while the seven others rallied to negotiations, Le- 
boeuf and Coffinieres voted in the negative. 

They were right — Leboeuf partly redeeming his faults as 
former Minister of War, Coffinieres trying to make amends 
for his lack of foresight and his weakness. Who could know 
the possibilities of a desperate resolution? But they had 
not listened to them. . . . Moreover, what a strange con- 
tradiction on the part of this council, which at the time of 
taking the most risky step unanimously decided that the 
Commander-in-Chief must not accept any delegation to 
ratify this very step, because it was necessary for the army 
to remain outside all political negotiations. Was this want 
of logic? asked Du Breuil. Who did they deceive? Did 
they want to delude themselves? 

A second council of war was held on the following day, 
the 19th. Boyer left immediately afterwards. It was a 
stormy meeting. A warm intervention on the part of Chan- 
garnier had rallied the suffrages in favour of an application 
to the Empress. In the midst of the most bitter recrimina- 
tions, they had violently accused Coffinieres of over-exciting 
the town; they reproached him with having recognised the 
Government of the National Defence by his official acts. 
One commander of a corps had called him the President of 
the Republic of Metz, and demanded his immediate removal 
from office. Another cried that he would never pardon him- 
self for having countersigned his appointment. Coffinieres 
replied that his resignation had been given in; he renewed 
his offer to the Marshal, who refused. Again, he insisted on 
the complete separation of the town and of the army, and 
called to mind that on the next day, the 20th, he was no 
longer under an engagement to furnish supplies to the army. 

The general commissary of stores became excited. The 
men, to whom they had distributed the last allowance of 
bread, would only have horseflesh to eat in two days’ time. 
It was decided that each member of the council should use 
his influence with the officers and troops to make them accept 
the desired solution. 

On the 20th and the 21st rain was still falling. Du 
Breuil, Restaud, even the careless Decherac, passed through 
all the forms of morbid expectation. On Friday Du Breuil, 


THE DISASTER. 


345 


during. a spell of fine weather, made a tour of the Ban Saint- 
Martin. He stopped before each bivouac. All the bivouacs 
had a mournful appearance. It was the hour for soupej the 
fires, made with wet wood, burned with difficulty; a strong 
wind was blowing the smoke in the soldiers’ faces. The men, 
soaked in their cloaks, proceeded with weak, bent backs, 
porringer in hand, under the tents, swallowed their horse- 
flesh broth without bread or salt, and quickly went to sleep. 
Sleep during the day, sleep at night, a continual torpor 
stupefied these men, who had suffered too much. Du Breuil 
had turned away his eyes, so' as not to see the horses. One 
thousand of them were now dying daily. There were not 
sufficient tumbrels to carry them to the graves; they no 
longer even succeeded in killing and burying them. Carrion 
and skeletons, they infected the air and putrefied the mud. 

Barrus, occupied in spreading in the camps his revolu- 
tionary ideas, came out of an officer’s tent. His beard, which 
he no longer shaved, was growing thick and black; his eyes 
burned. 

“ Well, infamy is consummated! ” he said. “ Our leaders, 
without shame, appeal to the Empire which has been our 
ruin! But history will relate some day these underhand 
machinations. The verbal communication which the chiefs 
of the corps have made to their officers is astounding, with- 
out a parallel. And the declaration to the Generals ! ” He 
quoted it from memory : “ ‘ If the Regent agrees to the prop- 
ositions of peace, she will be represented by Marshal Ba- 
zaine. The army will not receive rations to-morrow; the 
day after to-morrow wine and meat will be distributed. The 
French army will leave Metz in three days’ time, with the 
consent of the Prussians, to re-establish order in France. 
The chiefs of the corps are asked to make numerous propo- 
sitions for the cross and the medal. Officers will receive pay 
for Hovember.’ But what is unknown,” he added, “ are the 
terms of the treaty which Boyer is carrying. Bazaine stipu- 
lates in it such extensive powers that he is made dictator. 
And there is nobody to act. The inhabitants of Metz cavil 
and dispute like the Greeks of Byzantium. There are times 
wffien I feel inclined to enter Bazaine’s house and blow out 
his brains. They will shoot me, but what does that matter 
to me ? ” He made a gesture of despair. His excitement 
increased. “ Look, the roads are turned into rivers, and the 


346 


THE DISASTER. 


bivouacs are marshes! The tents have become the colour 
of earth. To see their long files, wouldn’t you think they 
were the tumuli of a cemetery? These men in tatters are 
spectres rather than soldiers! That is what Bazaine has 
made of the finest army in France!” Suddenly he drew 
a paper from his pocket, and said: “Look; read that!’^ 

He moved rapidly away. 

It was a manuscript proclamation from the Metz National 
Guards to their brothers of the army, an appeal to arms. 

“ What is the good ? ” thought Du Breuil, with rage. 
“ The army, because it is powerless, will resign itself. And 
what can the town do? . . .” But to admit that was to him 
the worst humiliation. Thus to be bound, strangled, stifled; 
to will and to be unable to act; to be nothing, to dare to do 
nothing; to have handcuffs on one’s wrists and on one’s 
neck the yoke of duty and passive obedience! . . . 

On Sunday, the 23rd,^ he went to Metz in wretched 
weather. On the way he was surprised to meet D’Avol, 
mounted on an admirable thoroughbred full of fire. Both his 
hands were free. With sure touch he was controlling the 
unruly animal with his left hand. Without intention, a 
kick from the horse bespattered Du Breuil, who, shaking his 
stained sleeve, knit his brow. D’Avol stopped. He was dis- 
pleased. With an aggressive smile he said: 

“ He needs taking out. He only asks to be allowed to 
charge ! ” 

“ A new horse ? ” said Du Breuil. 

“ Yes, from the Emperor’s stables. Prince d’Eylau sold 
him to me. I give it the best corn.” 

“ You feed well. Last week, however, the Marshal for- 
bade horses to be so fed,” said Du Breuil, trying to smile, 
but his bitterness gaining the upper hand. 

D’Avol said: 

“ In future I only consult myself. The soldier who, 
wishing to make a sortie, would allow his horse to die, and 
his arms to rust, would be a fool. He who wishes to see the 
end wishes for the means of accomplishing it. . . . Eh, old 
fellow?” 

He stroked the thoroughbred’s neck. 

The animal trembled, ready to bound forward, its eye 
shining, its coat covered with perspiration. D’Avol looked 
down upon his friend. 


THE DISASTER. 


347 


‘^Well, and your Jew? They have shot him!” 

“What Jew?” 

“ The spy Gugl! You don’t wear your ring any longer? ” 

Du Breuil uttered a dry “ No.” 

“ You are going to the Bersheims’ ? ” continued D’Avol. 
“ You’ll find Anine there. There is no doubt she will be 
charmed to see you.” 

Du Breuil, astounded, looked at him. D’Avol’s face had 
an evil look upon it. 

“ Much pleasure may you have,” he said, and without 
otherwise saying good-bye he quieted his horse, which was 
prancing. Then, changing his mind, he said : “ A piece of 
advice! You censured me the other evening before Anine, 
and in my absence.” 

“ I ? ” 

“ Yes, you. You said that it was criminal to wish, by 
means of a conspiracy, to get out of the shameful difficulty 
in which we are involved.” 

“ I think so.” 

“ That is possible. Don’t say it any more.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because I abstain from saying before Anine what I 
think of your inaction.” 

“ However, you injured me in her presence.” 

“ And you attack me from behind ! ” 

There was a painful, a terrible silence, during which they 
penetrated to the bottom of each other’s souls. D’Avol con- 
tinued : 

“Also, while I’m here, my dear fellow, remember this: 
Sometimes I’ve given you lessons, but I have never received 
any.” 

“ There is still time.” 

“ What do you say ? ” 

“ Don’t you hear ? Is it your horse which prevents 
you ? ” 

D’Avol turned pale. 

“ You provoke me ! ” 

Du Breuil replied: 

“ I’m tired of your raillery and disdain. I don’t merit 
them.” 

“I don’t like hypocrites,” said D’Avol, with great rage. 
“Who introduced you to the Bersheims? Why do you do 


348 


THE DISASTER. 


me an injury with Anine? Do you think I haven’t under- 
stood your looks, silences, and the accord of your smiles ? ” 

“ Don’t let us speak of this young lady, Jacques. Neither 
of us has the right.” 

D’Avol’s face became painfully rigid. 

“Yes, since you love her! Well, let .her judge between 
us. I, at least, risk my life for honour.” 

“ And I risk honour,” said Du Breuil scoffingly, “ to save 
my life. Is that what you wish to say ? ” 

“You’ve saved me the trouble.” 

Du Breuil said haughtily: 

“Your horse is getting impatient. . . 

D’Avol cried: 

“We shall see each other again!” 

In his look of mingled jealousy, hatred, and reproach, 
there appeared all the horror of an affection which is infected 
by malice. He made a gesture expressing threats and fare- 
well. His horse, spurred on its flanks, made a bound of 
surprise, carrying him away in the midst of the splashing of 
puddles. Du Breuil felt a smart, mingled with regret and 
remorse. His injured pride, however, did not prevent him 
from growing tender. By losing D’Avol he felt how dear his 
friend had been to him. He cursed this hideous war which 
was poisoning the blood, irritating men’s characters. The 
appeal to Anine’s verdict left in him a feeling of deep anx- 
iety. Thus Jacques confessed, proclaimed himself his rival, 
and both struggled, without knowing what the young lady — 
the stake they were quarrelling over — ^would think upon 
seeing herself thus disputed. Were they not doing her an 
offence simply by bandying her name? Du Breuil suffered 
to see his doubts and suspicions realized. . . . What ! D’Avol 
had loved, desired her! Being a bold man, perhaps he had 
confessed his love? . . . He was filled with jealousy. . . . 
He experienced a feeling of hatred, and at the same time 
the injustice of his friend’s accusations revolted him. He 
who was so discreet, so reserved, a hypocrite! He who only 
thought of Anine with respectful fervour! 

A small Second Lieutenant, white and shivering under 
his cloak, saluted him in Bersheim’s courtyard. Maurice 
had received the epaulet three days before. He also had 
come from the camps, the African fevers having again seized 
him. He was trembling like an old man. Bersheim came 


THE DISASTER. 


349 


out from one of the ground-floor rooms, accompanied by 
Dr. Sohier. “ Pere Coupe-Toujours ” had aged by reason of 
overwork — too many amputations! His lip curled up in a 
grimace of disgust, and his eyes expressed a violent an- 
tipathy for everything he looked upon. He had seen too 
much; he had had enough of it! 

“ What would you have me do ? ” he was saying. “ This 
child has a raging typhoid fever. She will be lucky if she 
pulls through.” He was speaking of Thibaut’s little girl. 
“ And the mother on the eve of her confinement ! She has 
chosen her time well ! . . . And this fellow,” he said, feeling 
Maurice’s pulse. “ Go, my boy ; you can take your quinine. 
If Boyer doesn’t get us out of this, we shall all die here.” 

He made a gesture of anger against the sombre sky, the 
rain, the town full of wounded, with its odour of fever and 
gangrene. 

“ F ather Desroques, a victim of his charity and devotion, 
is dying,” said Bersheim to Du Breuil. “You know how 
much we love him.” 

At that moment Maurice coughed — a dry, violent, con- 
tinued fit. Everybody looked at him in silence. Sohier sud- 
denly became furious, and repeated: 

“ Take your quinine, my boy, and wear wool next to the 
skin ! ” 

A painful uneasiness followed upon his departure. They 
entered Bersheim’s study. Maurice made off. 

“ General Boisjol, who is out of all patience, has just left 
here,” Bersheim announced. “ He said to me that each day 
was. a battle lost. Well, what is there fresh? Boyer?” 

A telegram from Luxemburg had announced that the 
General had been delayed twenty-four hours. His return 
was not far off. Du Breuil knew nothing else, save stories 
about the check Bourbaki had received. . . . The Empress 
had let him see to what an extent they had taken advantage 
of his credulity. She did not know this Regnier, had re- 
fused to receive him; the passport with which he was in- 
vested, and that photograph signed by the Prince Imperial, 
came from the entourage. With noble patriotism, she was 
reluctant to go against the wishes of France. Du Breuil 
had a vision of the Sovereign, with her despotic charm, her 
haughty eyes, in all the magnificence of her fair beauty, 
crossing the saloons at Saint-Cloud. Such a face could not 


350 


THE DISASTER. 


deceive; it would retain, proud to the end, the majesty of re- 
nunciation and silence. . . . Boyer, when at Versailles, had 
seen a letter from Bourbaki to the King; of Prussia, in which 
the General, authorized by him to enter Metz, thanked Wil- 
liam. How was it, therefore, that he had not yet returned? 
Doubtless he had gone to place himself under the orders of 
the Government of the Defence. On the other hand, the 
Marshal had just decided to send emissaries to the new 
power. Two interpreters — Valcount and Prieski witch — had 
taken a despatch in which Bazaine, complaining that he had 
received no news, urgently asked for some, as famine would 
very shortly oblige him to come to a decision in the interest 
of France and of the army. 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Bersheim indignantly. “ He is run- 
ning after two hares at the present time ! Ah yes 1 I under- 
stand. If the Empress refuses, he will try to make an ar- 
rangement with the present Government. He only thinks 
of himself — always of himself — but in truth a little late. 
What does it matter to him if his army rots and dies of 
starvation ! . . . They have shot traitors for less than that ! ” 
He continued : “ Assuredly this is the end of Metz, the end 
of the army, the end of everything. Coffinieres has informed 
the council that on the 28th the inhabitants will eat their 
last mouthful of bread. Then, if the army abandons us, it 
is a very simple matter — the Germans will enter the town 
after a few days; and when they have taken possession of 
Metz, they will never, never give it up. They will tear away 
a large part of France, and will make it Prussian territory. 
What will become of us, inhabitants of Metz, French citi- 
zens? As for me, I shall expatriate myself with my family. 
I shall say farewell to this town in which my family has 
lived, where my father and mother are at rest in the ceme- 
tery. I won’t speak of my fortune. I will leave the ruins 
behind me. The war will have taken all from me. My son 
Andre is dead, and he who remains is feeble and weak. My 
God! my God! the affliction is too ^reat! . . .” 

Bersheim, his elbows upon his desk, burst into tears.” Du 
Breuil was touched to the heart. 

“ My poor friend. . . courage. Mothing is lost. . . . 
Boyer may succeed. ... We may yet make a way out. . . . 
One knows not what to-morrow will bring forth.” 

But he did not believe it, and Bersheim did not believe it 


THE DISASTER. 


351 


either. It was a horrible misfortune for the two men. The 
door opened, and Anine entered. She saw her father sob- 
bing, rushed forward, and threw her arms around him. 

“Father . . . you, who are so brave! You, who set the 
example ! . . . What ! you also 1 ” she said, turning towards 
Du Breuil, whose eyes were filled with tears. “ If I'were a 
man I should not cry. One doesn’t cry when one has done 
one’s duty, and when one has nothing to reproach one’s self 
with.” 

In the heavy nightmare which oppressed him, Du Breuil 
felt an inexpressible alleviation. She absolved him then; 
she understood, she pitied him. She was not satisfied with 
words and bravado. She gave him the credit of honour; 
she did not doubt that he had done, that he was ready to do, 
everything possible. 

“ Your conscience is here, father ! ” 

She turned once more towards Du Breuil. He could not 
mistake the affectionate brightness in her look. 

“ If you knew,” she said, with touching enthusiasm, “ all 
that he has expended in devotion, zeal, and charity in these 
three months! But our workmen, our wounded, all who 
know us, will remember. Come, father! If Metz must die, 
it will not be your fault. It will not be the fault of any 
soldier or officer of this brave army. The burden must be 
born by those who are responsible; censure and dishonour 
is theirs. If Metz ceases to be French, we will leave, and will 
press still closer together, so as to feel the coldness of exile 
less. . . .” 

“ Ah ! ” murmured Bersheim, “ if the army were will- 
ing ! ” 

It was his last cry of revolt. He did not explain what 
the army could do, by what means it ought to act. He 
thought that it had only to rush forward in a mass, a blind 
crowd. He forgot that the soldiers needed leaders, that this 
speechless giant needed a motive brain. 

“Father,” said Anine sweetly, “do you think our friends 
are not willing? . . . They need the means.” 

“ Our friends ! ” In saying these words, she enveloped 
Du Breuil with a look of pity and loyal goodness. ... It 
warmed his heart. 

“Assuredly, one has gone as far as one can,” he said, 
“ without ruining discipline. Lapasset and Bisson asked for 


352 


THE DISASTER. 


troops, and offered to make a sortie. Desvaux, Deligny, and 
Boisjol only ask to rush upon the enemy with the Guard; 
but an order is necessary.” 

Ah ! ” exclaimed Bersheim. I understand why Ba- 
zaine does not dare to show himself in the town. He would 
be insulted, scoffed at; the very cobble-stones would rise to 
stone him.” 

Du Breuil returned sadly to the Ban Saint-Martin. 
Marquis, whom he met on the Place Fabert, confided to him 
that the Comte de Paris was King of France, with Thiers 
and Trochu as Ministers. Peace was signed, and it cost 
them 4,000,000,000 francs. Marquis appeared disconsolate. 

“ Just at the moment resolute men were going to make a 
sortie ! ” 

Du Breuil was tired with his boasting. Around them 
Metz presented a lamentable spectacle. Everywhere were 
wretched groups of people, the eddies of the swell of the 
populace. In the low quarters of the town sick people in 
rags, and bands of famished men and women, besieged the 
bakers’ shops, which had been closed by order, for they only 
sold bread at fixed hours, and on the presentation of personal 
cards. Upon returning to headquarters, Du Breuil again 
found the same state of idle and gloomy waiting. He ex- 
perienced a miserable little pleasure when looking over the 
list of decorations to see the name of Judin. He saw on the 
list neither that of Restaud nor of Vedel. With scandalous 
frenzy men’s ambition, egoisms, and meannesses made them 
ciowd to the Marshal’s office. He was signing all propositions 
for the medal and the cross, thus pacifying bitternesses and 
hostility, satisfying the vilest amour propre at the expense 
of solidarity in the common misfortune. 

On the 24th the rain was torrential. Frisch, in pushing 
open the door, brought in with his sabots the mud and cold 
from outside. 

“ There is no more oats, sir, for Cydalise. But I’ve found 
a sack of beetroot seeds which is for sale. Captain Restaud’s 
horse is very bad. . . .” He ventured to say : “ They say 
there are some regiments where the men weep for hunger.” 

Three hours afterwards the arrival of an officer bearing a 
despatch from Frederick Charles shattered Bazaine’s last 
hopes. Bismarck telegraphed the check which Boyer had 
received. The Empress had refused to sanction any kind 


THE DISASTER. 


353 


of transaction, just the same as she refused to sign any 
treaty the basis of which was a surrender of territory. The 
Imperial Government, decidedly, would not find any support 
in France. The King did not wish to impose it. Besides, 
the Marshal had given none of the guarantees which were 
asked for as the primary basis of every convention — that is 
to say, the surrender of the town of Metz and the signatures 
of the leaders of the army recognising the Regency, and 
undertaking to re-establish it. Under these conditions there 
was no longer any need to continue political negotiations. 
The question was a military one, and its solution must be 
found in war. 

It was a strange thing that, though Du Breuil foresaw 
and awaited this reply from the Chancellor, it came upon 
him as such a cruel deception that he was filled with un- 
speakable rage. The Marshal and his council fooled, duped ! 
The Empress, with meritorious dignity, refused to interfere; 
the case for the Empire was lost from the first day. By 
placing before us this mirage of negotiations, Bismarck had 
brought us to final exhaustion! He raised the mask now! 
What step was the council, which had been convoked imme- 
diately, going to take? What energetic and desperate reso- 
lutions? . . . He awaited the Marshal’s decision, every now 
and then exchanging a word with Restaud and Decherac 
with exceedingly anxious feelings of hope and doubt. Cer- 
tain faces at that time appeared to him odious — those of 
Massoli, Francastel, Floppe. . . . Laune, badly cured of his 
jaundice, had recovered his dry rigidity. Charlys, always 
out of doors, went from camp to camp, his thinness more 
and more emphasizing his Don-Quixote-like silhouette. 

When this interminable meeting came to an end, Du 
Breuil and his companions learnt that recourse to arms was 
considered impossible. Credulous to the end, Bazaine and 
his council placed in the hands of General Changarnier the 
painful mission of parleying with the conqueror. With the 
authority of his illustrious name, the veteran consented to 
go and ask Prince Frederick Charles to consent to the follow- 
ing conditions : Neutralization of the army on the spot, and 
an armistice for revictualling ; offer to appeal to the deputies 
and the powers in office at the time of the Constitution of 
May, 1870, to treat for peace. If this first article were not 
accepted, to ask for the relegation to a spot of the territory 


354 


THE DISASTER. 


to fulfil there the same mission of order ; or to obtain, in the 
clauses of a capitulation for lack of supplies, the sending of 
the army into Algeria. 

“ No ! ” exclaimed Du Breuil. “ At such a time still to 
delude one’s self with political hopes passes all imagina- 
tion ! ” 

The opinions of the Commanders-in-Chief were severely 
discussed. Desvaux, Leboeuf, and Colhnieres alone had asked 
for a desperate sortie. Desvaux had said the Guard would 
follow its Generals and officers. But all the others had dis- 
agreed with such a sortie. Ladmirault, who was ready, how- 
ever, to obey, foresaw the greatest disaster. Frossard and 
Soleille confirmed his statements; the cavalry was dis- 
mounted, the artillery could not be yoked. All directions 
for a sortie had been recognised impracticable. There was 
no bread left, and meat was running out. The only thing to 
do was to treat. 

Du Breuil passed a mournful night. In vain did he try 
to go to sleep; he was devoured by a thousand furious, gad- 
fly-like thoughts. The darkness stifled him. In spite of the 
cold and the dampness of the walls, he panted, his forehead 
flushed. He relighted his candle. Where was he ? Why was 
he there? Never had the horror of his situation appeared 
to him so striking. 

This was what they had reached hour by hour, minute by 
minute, by reason of heedlessness, inactivity, lured on by 
pourparlers. . . . Capitulation! . . . Notwithstanding the 
flashes which, in certain lucid moments, had disclosed to him 
the dark declivity, he had never sounded the depth of the 
abyss. All the protestations of his indignant conscience, 
then came to light. His restrained feelings of revolt re- 
belled against the leader who, by his thoughtlessness, care- 
lessness, and incapacity, had prepared the disaster which his 
egoism and ambition was now completing. He lived those 
three months over again, so many hours not one of which 
had been without its suffering. He was troubled by the un- 
intentional or intentional faults of the Marshal. 

These were, at the time of the retreat on Verdun, on 
August 14th, the placing on one side of his indispensable 
collaborator. General Jarras, the slowness of orders, late or 
inadequate, neglecting to destroy bridges, the employment of 
a single road when four were free, the disbanding of the 


THE DISASTER. 


355 


auxiliary commissariat waggons which carried the supplies; 
then, as soon as the Emperor was got rid of, that incompre- 
hensible stoppage on August 16th, after the glorious Rezon- 
ville fight. Afterwards the return under Metz, which was 
justified neither by the state of provisions nor that of the 
ammunition; the shameful way in which he had left Can- 
robert to be crushed on the 18th, notwithstanding his urgent 
and repeated appeals for help. He had deceived the Em- 
peror by pleading lack of provisions as a reason for not 
continuing his march, by letting him believe on the 19th that 
he was going to reach Montmedy (which had made Mac- 
Mahon determine to come to his assistance) ; finally, by in- 
forming the Minister of War, on August 26th, that he could 
not force the enemy’s lines, while he assured MacMahon that 
he could break through when he wanted! 

Once within the intrenched camp, what measures had he 
taken to supply his army with food if he had decided not to 
make a sortie? Hot one. He had not gathered in the re- 
sources of the suburbs of Metz. And those which existed he 
had squandered by not immediately placing the army and 
the town on short allow^ances, by allowing the soldiers to 
waste the provisions and bread, by giving the horses corn or 
rye which should have nourished the men. . . . But perhaps 
he had counted on making a sortie ? The conference of Gri- 
mont was, then, only a farce. He had deceived his lieu- 
tenants; not content with hiding from them the march of 
the Chalons army, of which he had been informed by a de- 
spatch, he took good care not to communicate to them his 
own despatches to the Emperor, to the Minister, and to the 
Marshal. Knowing that supplies had been reconstituted, he 
had let Soleille affirm that there was only sufficient am- 
munition for one battle. And why had he not made a sortie 
at Hoisseville on August 31st and September 1st? Since 
Sedan, what had he done with the exception of engaging in 
negotiations with the enemy: asking Prince Frederick 
Charles for information, making Regnier a confidant, allow- 
ing Bourbaki to freely proceed to Hastings, sending Boyer 
to Bismarck, and then to the Empress? 

He had disguised the truth to the end. On October 10th 
he had kept silence on the subject of his pourparlers, the 
Regnier incident, the motives for Bourbaki’s departure, the 
depots of provisions at Thionville and at Longwy! He did 


356 


THE DISASTER. 


not confess that he had himself already unsuccessfully entered 
into the negotiations which the council decided to make! 
On the 18 th he intercepted the newspapers which were 
brought back by Boyer. He exaggerated bad news — spread 
it about in the camps. The Marshal had tried to unnerve 
his army by every means, to destroy all its energy, to trans- 
form it into a docile eunuch, into a passive instrument of 
his policy. 

What had been the dream of this fortunate soldier, this 
parvenu of war, enriched in honours ? By what under- 
ground operations of thought had he descended to this fierce 
egoism, to this monstrous blindness? How and why? By 
what madness of ambition? The hope of supplanting Tro- 
chu, of thrusting himself before the Emperor and France as 
the saviour, the arbitrator of the destinies of the country? 
A very miserable speculation! It was an unworthy calcula- 
tion on the part of a leader who was created for the ma- 
noeuvres of war, not for those of politics — politics which were 
always fatal to Generals who lost their way in them ! There 
were, however, the examples of Dumouriez, Pichegru and 
Moreau; still more recently Cavaignac, Bedeau and Lamori- 
ciere had broken their backs on that fatal spring-board* 
But what warning, what voice, had awakened his torpid con- 
science ? What ! not once had he been moved by the distress, 
the hunger and misery of his soldiers ! Never had the death- 
rattle in the throats of wounded reached his ears, never had 
he placed his foot within the hospitals or ambulances! Un- 
known even to the troops, passing in their midst, mysterious 
and without escort, quickly withdrawing to his awe-inspiring 
house, he seemed to be unconcerned with all these sufferers 
who were in his keeping, with all these lives whose honour 
had been entrusted to him. 

The faults and errors of each one did not cover his. In 
vain had he tried to take refuge behind those whom he had 
left in danger to be crushed. The law was formal. He 
commanded all, and he would pay for all. The doors of his- 
tory were open before him — one led towards fields of laurels 
in the light, the other was half open upon a mysterious well. 

He had chosen. 


PART YI. 


CHAPTEK L 

“ Have you heard the news ? ” said Restaud. “ Changar- 
nier is proceeding towards Corny. Frederick Charles con- 
sents to receive him.” 

Du Breuil shook his head. All steps would be in vain. 
All the same, this abnegation of the old soldier, who was 
certainly a stranger to the catastrophe, was fine. But what 
bitter refiections he must be making — he, the hero of the 
Constantine retreat, the former Major of the 2nd Light 
Horse, formerly unbreakable under the shock of Arab 
charges, in the centre of his square — in thus going to beg 
for pity for one hundred and seventy-five thousand men! 
What a sad crowning of his career! 

It was a day of anguish, a mournful day, passed with 
one’s face to the window-panes, watching the rain falling, 
falling. In the midst of whisperings, incomplete phrases, 
deep silences, the minutes passed and passed, drawing out 
the Sadness and melancholy. Floppe’s pleasantries hung 
fire. Everyone in the dark room felt a deadly cold at his 
heart. Registers were closed, pens had rusted, desks were 
empty. Every now and then an order was copied, the leaves 
of a portfolio were turned over, and again there came the 
inaction which mortifies, the waiting which consumes. 

About five o’clock the doors swung open. Laune, his face 
expressive of irritation, appeared. He threw ofi his stream- 
ing waterproof and placed some papers on a table. Ardent 
eyes scrutinized his face, and without uttering a word he 
came and went in the midst of general curiosity, striking 
the floor with his muddy heels. He could control himself 
no longer. He gave vent to his sorrow. 

They tell fine stories down there ! Changarnier has 

357 


358 


THE DISASTER. 


returned. . . .” There was a solemn silence. “It appears 
they received him admirably! . . . Two Aides-de-camp came 
to meet him, a Colonel, courteous men, but such courtesy! 
The Prince showed the greatest respect for the old gentle- 
man, who is still quite flattered at it.” 

“ Flies are not caught with vinegar,” murmured Floppe. 

The silence increased. 

“ In short,” uttered the lashing voice, “ the conditions are 
plain — complete surrender in the case of the army as in that 
of the town, capitulation pure and simple. Frederick Charles 
pretended that he is informed hour by hour of what passes 
among us. He said that secret councils, resolutions of the 
Council of War, the day even were known to him. He gave 
an account of such a speech or project which had been made. 
. . . ‘ Your troops are famished, incapable of the least ef- 
fort; mine await, standing at ease, for the end of the agony, 
which cannot be prolonged.’ And pointing out waggons 
full of supplies crowded on the line, he said : ‘ Those are 
convoys which I have had brought here to revictual the army 
and the town, once the capitulation is signed.’ ” 

These words quivered like arrows in souls which were 
bleeding. The emotion was so infectious that even Massoli’s 
face was harassed. Du Breuil and Restaud — shame on their 
cheeks! — exchanged long looks, which were charged with 
rage. Decherac, after a moment, asked: 

“ And that famous possibility of a sojourn in Algeria or 
on some spot of the territory? The army neutral, with- 
drawing with arms and baggage ? ” 

“ A chimera, like the rest,” exclaimed Laune. “ The 
enemy fears that there would be trouble with the population 
with whom we came into contact. They haven’t confldence 
in the present Government. They complain of the conduct 
of the general officers, who, since Sedan, have not kept their 
engagements, who have commenced service again. ... In a 
word, they are our master; they have us, and they will not 
let us go.” 

“ Then ? ” cried Decherac. 

“ Then,” continued Laune, in a deep voice, “ the Prince, 
with consideration, really with infinite consideration, gave 
Changarnier to understand the necessity of an immediate 
solution. ‘ The step which you have taken itself proves the 
urgency. . . .’ And that under penalty of compromising the 


THE DISASTER. 


359 


existence of so many thousands of men! At five o’clock, 
therefore, the chief of his staff. General von Stiehle, awaits 
on the line of outposts the negotiator chosen by the Marshal 
to settle questions of detail.” 

All eyes turned towards the clock on the mantelpiece, 
which was striking five o’clock with a shrill note. One could 
have heard a pin drop. 

“ So that at this very minute,” concluded Laune, whose 
face, still injected with bile, paled, “ General de Cissey, gen- 
tlemen, is learning the hard conditions which the conqueror 
dictates to us.” 

He became silent, there was a choking in his throat. 
Everyone thought over the same bitterness, and again silence 
reigned. The wind blew in squalls, the rain dashed against 
the windows, and for a long time each one heard, in the 
midst of the cold, the humidity, the blackness — heard like 
a distant roll veiled by crape — the funeral march which 
Laune was mechanically tapping out with his fingers on 
the window-panes. 

The twilight entered by windows and the oozing doors, 
and through the bare walls. It rose from the ground, fioated 
in the form of black draperies in the corners of the ceiling, 
insinuated itself into their hearts, froze feelings of mute 
revolt and bitter dreams. The light from the lamps did not 
succeed in dispersing its invisible presence. 

It was a lugubrious evening, a mournful dinner. What 
news was General de Cissey going to bring back? Ah! un- 
doubtedly only odious humiliation, meditated over and over 
again beforehand. To hope for other conditions, one must 
be mad! Du Breuil was astonished to find himself at table 
as usual. While eating, he thought of the anxious army, 
of the hundred thousand minds which were watching under 
the tents, of that immense emaciated crowd, soaked to the 
skin, which was shivering with hunger, fever, and hope, in 
the icy mud and in the icy darkness. Thus could they sub- 
mit to such a sorrow and continue to live as though there was 
nothing, accomplish the same daily actions. . . . People 
around him were even in conversation. His eyes sought 
those of Kestaud, and their distress was united. 

Outside the rain was still falling. Black drops of water 
and cold wind struck them. They walked on in silence.. 
Upon entering Mme. Guimbail’s both sat down at a corner 
24 


360 


THE DISASTER. 


of the fireplace. Savage, their lips closed, they continued 
the eternal contemplation of their troubles in the solitary 
room, lighted by a smoky candle. 

Du Breuil thought with reprobation of the members of 
the council. Was not one of them, with awakened energy, 
at last going to cry the words which would relieve the uni- 
versal weakness and cowardice? Dulled by old age and 
honours, they had first of all allowed themselves to be led 
astray by their attachment to the Empire, allowed themselves 
momentarily to doubt France, even to persuade themselves 
that Paris would not hold out. . . . Whence this indiffer- 
ence, this blind resignation, this kind of torpor and feeble- 
ness which had swallowed up the best? Peace was imminent. 
They would get out of the difiiculty. . . . Du Breuil im- 
agined their terrible start on the brink of the abyss suddenly 
yawning before them. They would doubtless rebel. Their 
long lives of bravery and honour were a guarantee for them. 
All of them — ^yes, all — would rise like one man after hearing 
Changarnier and De Cissey’s reports, would strike the table 
with their fists, and, seizing the traitor by the collar. . . . 

A secret voice at the bottom of his conscience protested. 
On the face of it nobody would act in that way. The secret 
voice added: because nobody has a right to do so. Feeling 
his reason shatter against the wall of the. inflexible problem, 
Du Breuil, half mad, buried his face in his hands. Restaud, 
his eyes dry and shining, still kept silence. Thus they re- 
mained for hours, the silence of the room only broken by the 
streaming of the rain and the plaintive fury of the wind, 
which shook the doors and whistled in the chimney. The 
candle-end burnt itself out. Restaud left without unclench- 
ing his teeth. Never had they felt themselves to be so near 
or so far away in heart. 

It was still raining the next morning, when, at the hour 
which had been fixed, the great chiefs appeared, followed by 
their orderly officers. One by one they entered the Marshal’s 
house, where Changarnier and De Cissey had preceded them. 
Du Breuil, in his proper position, was present at the file past 
of the groups, with their bowed backs and pointed hoods, 
the steaming horses and the carriages splashed with mud. 
The solemnity of the circumstances gave a mournful grand- 
eur to this ordinary spectacle. Clouds violently scudded 
across the gray sky. Shortly afterwards the officers came 


THE DISASTER, 


361 


out again. Orderlies were walking the horses, for which 
they had been unable to find shelter, up and down by the 
bridle. As usual, there was the confusion of mobs and meet- 
ings in the downpour before this closed house, where so many 
human destinies were at stake. 

The result of the Changarnier and De Cissey missions 
was known: the town surrendered, the army a prisoner of 
war, colours, arms, baggage, and material in the hands of 
the conqueror. 

“ It is madness ! ” repeated Carrouge, scarlet with fury. 
“ Are we going to allow ourselves to be led to the slaughter- 
house like a flock of sheep ? ” 

He was gesticulating in the middle of a group in which 
Hu Breuil recognised De Cussac, who approved with his 
head, while he indignantly polished his eyeglass. Gex was 
smiling in a way which might be taken to be ironical or 
sorrowful, just as one pleased. He pointed to the impene- 
trable walls. 

“ I shouldn’t like to be in my master’s shoes,” he mur- 
mured. “ What step is to be taken ? ” 

There is only one,” exclaimed Francastel. “ In any and 
every case make a sortie, make a sortie.” 

He was visibly excited. Gex’s smile was emphasized, but 
voices were lowered upon the approach of a long, dry Cap- 
tain. It was Captain de Verdier, one of Soleille’s officers. 
His master’s attachment to .the Marshal’s ideas made him 
regarded with suspicion. Du Breuil was moved by a down- 
cast face and eyes in which appeared stupor and terror. A 
number of faces were thus desolated — faces of men con- 
demned to death, up to that time asleep in the hope of re- 
prieve and pardon, and which the ruddy dawn awakened, 
haggard. 

The rain redoubled. The room of chief headquarters 
filled with Aides-de-camp. Those who were still working 
laid down their pens. All waited in a state of feverish im- 
patience. Conversations, broken by silences, were resumed. 

; . . Eyes were turned towards the mysterious house. The 
sitting continued. Du Breuil felt Restaud’s terribly anxious 
look resting upon him. At last, after three mortal hours, 
each one uttered a sigh of deliverance. Aides-de-camp 
rushed to their chiefs. 

Although resigned beforehand to the worst news, it was 


362 


THE DISASTER. 


with extreme dejection that in the afternoon they learnt the 
final resolutions taken by the Marshal. 

“ Bazaine has need to shield himself ceaselessly by the 
approval of the council, for he alone,” said Charlys — “ he 
alone is responsible. The law recognises no other authority 
than that of the Commander-in-Chief.” 

No, thought Du Breuil, each had a part in the responsi- 
bility — Canrobert, Leboeuf, Ladmirault, Brossard, Coffini- 
eres, and Soleille — all would be censured in the future for 
having remained silent, for having accepted this dishonour, 
this infamy, without revolt. A rumour was afloat, however, 
in praise of General Desvaux. He had uttered noble words, 
but nobody agreed to a desperate effort. The commander of 
the Guard had to accept the general decision, which was to 
surrender Metz at the same time as the army. The supplies 
reserved in case of siege would be placed at the disposal of 
all from that day. General Jarras, the council’s delegate in 
spite of his recriminations, was going to Frescati to draw 
up and sign a military convention. 

The rain was still falling fast, streaming in cascades, or 
else, swept by the wind, passing in vapours. A dim light 
was over all things. A few ofiicers were completing the work 
necessitated by the morning meeting. 

Du Breuil collated the despatch to General Coffinieres, 
intimating to him the order to place the last resources of the 
town at the disposal of the Commissary General of the army ; 
he would see to their distribution. Hot discussions were 
continued around him. 

“ Well,” exclaimed Floppe, “ this is tough for men who 
formerly pushed from them all conditions incompatible with 
our honour and the sentiment of military duty I 

“ I cannot see,” said Massoli, very dignified with his white 
hair, “ how an honourable convention, which you know they 
have been negotiating for a long time, can surprise you.” 

Francastel, his moustache bristling, and a wild look in 
his eye, cried: 

“ An honourable convention ! Call things by their proper, 
name! Bazaine may be reluctant to pronounce the word 
capitulation, which takes the skin off his lips, but he will 
deceive nobody.” 

“ Finally,” continued Massoli, with serene tranquillity, 
what must we do, what can we do ? ” 


THE DISASTER. 


363 


“ Everything with the exception of what is being ar- 
ranged!” howled Francastel. “Is a pitched battle impos- 
sible? Let brave men, officers and soldiers, concert! We 
will break through the German lines. Better danger than 
a shameful captivity. And if we don’t find leaders brave 
enough to place themselves at our head, then everyone for 
himself. We will break through all the same! Hurrah for 
those who wdll escape ! The blood of the others will at least 
have washed the honour of the army! ...” 

“ Always talking,” thought Du Breuil. “ You will be the 
first to be resigned! And that spiteful fellow Floppe would 
also suffer the common lot, contenting himself with a very 
bitter witticism. As to Massoli, his canteens were ready. 
. . .” But a doubt . came over him. “ What must we do, 
what can we do ? ” 

In the confusion of his thoughts he saw an obscure place 
where cross-roads met. He hesitated, lost. Which way was 
he to take? The same anguish was painted upon the faces 
of Decherac and Restaud; but the latter mastered himself 
by a violent effort, and deep faith shone from his pure eyes. 
He raised himself a thousand leagues above this discussion. 
Deaf to words which weaken, deaf to the very cry in his own 
heart, he was fervently celebrating his own sacrifice. A 
voluntary victim, he was sacrificing himself to the supreme 
religion of his life. With torn soul and closed mouth, he 
left the obscure cross-roads and struck off into the road of 
opprobrium, whence afar off his eyes of a believer distin- 
guished the little altar-lamp. Du Breuil, indecisive, read in 
h's eyes, this time shining, the humble and great thotight — 
obey and be silent. 

Such abnegation at that hour appeared to him above his 
own strength. He admired it in Restaud. He would have 
blamed it in himself. He said to himself, “ What is heroism 
in one may be cowardice in another.” He turned towards 
Decherac : 

“ It is true, we must make a passage sword in hand. . . . 
We shall find leaders! There are solemn circumstances in 
which obedience becomes an imposition. A General, respon- 
sible for thousands of men, is not bound down to the same 
slavery as the inferior officer or the soldier, who is respon- 
sible for himself alone. Duties change according to circum- 
stances. Let us remember FTapoleon’s admirable words; 


364 


THE DISASTER. 


‘ The sovereign or the country commands from the inferior 
officer and the soldier obedience towards their General in 
everything which conforms to the welfare or the honour of 
the service.’ And further on : ^ A General has received 
orders and instructions to 'employ his troops in the country’s 
defence. How can he have authority to order his soldiers 
to give up their arms and to receive chains ? ’ ” 

“ Never will you find a General willing to compromise 
himself,” said Decherac, with a disabused smile. “ The habit 
of discipline little by little kills initiative, personal reflec- 
tion and ardour.” 

“ I consider,” said Massoli, “ that one ought to resign 
one’s self to things when one can do nothing. A sortie 
would simply bring about useless massacres, fresh hecatombs. 
Humanity and pity necessitate renouncing what would only 
be a glorious piece of folly.” 

“ Then be logical ! ” exclaimed Hu Breuil dryly. “ Give 
up your rosette. The cross has two pieces of foolishness for 
a motto — honour and country. . . .” 

“ Massoli puts forward new theories,” railed Decherac. 
“ The town may be taken, so what is the good of enduring a 
siege? Why defend one’s self in the open country since one 
can capitulate ? ... In future we shall consider the Captain 
who charges with his equipage rather than haul down his 
flag a fool, and the hero who gains a bloody victory a crimi- 
nal. No more war, and no more army ! ” 

“No more France! ” replied Du Breuil. 

They knew now a few details of the sitting. The council 
had i^ceived Changarnier’s and Cissey’s communications 
with painful surprise. But the fatal question was asked: 
What was to be done? Commissary of Stores Lebrun had 
stated there were no more supplies. Certain corps had had 
no bread for the past two days. The Guard could hold out 
until the 27th. The 3rd corps alone had a little bread. As 
to the town, Coffinieres had said it could stand out until 
November 5th if left to itself. Horseflesh constituted almost 
the exclusive food for the troops. Their moral and physical 
state was growing worse every minute. General Soleille, cir- 
cumspect as he always was, spoke last. A sortie seemed to 
him to be a veritable suicide. They had no right to condemn 
to certain death so many soldiers of whom France would 
later call for account; and as to the survivors, they would 


THE DISASTER. 


3G5 


only present a spectacle of an army without discipline, ready 
to give way to the most regrettable excesses. . . . Conse- 
quently everything was said. They resolved only to ask for 
a detachment which would go to Algeria with arms and bag- 
gage, the honour which was refused to the whole army. They 
would also beg the enemy to allow the officers to retain their 
swords. 

There were also other rumours, to which Du Breuil re- 
fused to attach any faith, although Floppe stated he had 
received the information from Jarras himself. One of the 
members of the council had asked if it would not be better 
to make the cannon and rifles useless, and to drown the 
powder. General Soleille had contended that, simply by 
having entered into negotiations, the French army was 
pledged. Honour required that everything should be left in 
its present state. Besides, this work of destruction would 
be the signal for acts of insubordination. It was more 
dignified to accept misfortune in its entirety, shielding them- 
selves from the reproach of having acted in a manner con- 
trary to loyalty. That the whole council coolly listened to 
such monstrosities, and even approved of them, Du Breuil 
could not believe. And the proof was, he repeated, that 
General Desvaux, people said, had asked the Marshal upon 
leaving : 

“ And the colours ? ” 

“ Ah ! true ! ” Bazaine had cried ; and he had immediately 
given orders to have them taken to- the arsenal, where they 
would be burnt. 

Hours passed in a state of infectious trepidation, a fever- 
ish trouble of feelings and ideas, without him noticing. Sud- 
denly the door was pushed open by stout Captain Chagres. 
The rain came in from the outer darkness, and a gust of 
wind blew the papers across the room. 

“Well, Chagres,” ejaculated Floppe, upon seeing Cof- 
finieres’ orderly officer, “what is it you don’t care a damn 
for to-day? Have you come from Metz? What weather, 
eh?” 

“ I don’t care a damn for it,” said Chagres staidly. 
“ Where is Colonel Charlys ? ” 

Since morning he was not to be found. Chagres brought 
Coffinieres’ reply, acknowledging the receipt of the order 
relative to provisions. He gave the news of the town. At 


366 


THE DISASTER. 


the close of the sitting of the Municipal Council, which the 
General had attended to announce the Marshal’s resolution 
to the inhabitants of Metz, the bad news had quickly passed 
from mouth to mouth. Crowds had formed. Everywhere 
were indignant outcries and threats. But the rain dispersed 
the groups, and all these fine revolts ended in silent con- 
sternation. 

“ However, when I left the General’s house,” he added, 
“ a few enraged men were in the act of covering E abert’s 
statue on the Place d’Armes with an immense black piece of 
crape. . . .” He concluded philosophically : They veil his 
face, and that satisfies them. . . .” 

It was hardly five o’clock. It was pitch-dark outside. 
General Jarras’ safe-conduct arrived. The rain, which had 
been fine and persistent until then, commenced to fall in 
torrents. A terrific storm arose. The wind, with furious 
moans, shook the roofs. Projected with terrible force, the 
steaming water squirted in pointed fashion, crushing as it 
fell in torrents. With ever-increasing violence the blind 
struggle of the unchained elements whirled in the black sky. 
Then, General Jarras, escorted by Lieutenant-Colonel Fay, 
and Major Samuel, who were to act as his secretaries, got 
into an old omnibus, to which two lean “ screws ” were 
harnessed. Du Breuil watched the poor vehicle move away 
in the icy night, in the midst of the torrents of water which 
the storm brought in squalls. The destinies of the army 
and the town moved away at the same time under cover of 
the darkness. He imagined he was present at the suspicious 
departure of a clandestine interment. . . . Again the thought 
of the army haunted him. Still the rain fell, and the wind 
blew wildly. . . . Plank sheds collapsed in the mud; tent 
canvas was torn away and flapped like the debris of sails. 
. . . The whole night he saw this innumerable crowd rolled 
in its muddy shroud, sleeping in its sink the sleep of the 
brutes, or dreaming like himself, dead yet living. 

A shivering, pale dawn came through the window-panes. 
Restaud, with drawn features, entered the room, followed by 
Decherac. Du Breuil sprang to his feet. Well? . . . Nei- 
ther Restaud nor Decherac had slept a wink. As the latter 
lodged in the same house as Major Samuel, he had been 
the first to hear the news upon that officer’s return at three 


THE DISASTER. 307 

o’clock in the morning. It had been impossible to get to 
sleep again. 

He spoke of the slowness of the journey in the rain to 
Metz, the broken windows of the omnibus, the horses refus- 
ing to advance. At the Porte de France the three officers 
waited in vain, the wind preventing the shouts of the senti- 
nels from reaching the doorkeeper. They succeeded at last 
in finding another carriage, and at ten o’clock they left the 
town. At the outposts they got out, and a violent wind, 
which was driving cold hail before it, extinguished the lan- 
tern. They walked on like machines, their heads buried in 
their hoods. Suddenly there was a “ Wer da ! ” It was the 
enemy’s outpost. 

“In short,” said Decherac, “they reached Frescati. Jar- 
ras and Stiehle for a long time discussed in one of the rooms, 
while Samuel and Fay waited two mortal hours in the ad- 
joining drawing-room, silent, face to face with officers of 
the German statf. They were summoned in turn. Stiehle 
commenced to dictate the clauses upon which Jarras and he 
had just come to an understanding.” 

Du Breuil and Restaud looked at each other. 

“ Article 1st,” continued Decherac, after a short silence, 
“the French Army is a prisoner of war. Article 2nd, the 
fortress and the town of Metz, with all the forts, the material 
of war, supplies of all kinds, and everything which is the 
property of the State, will be surrendered on Saturday, the 
29th, at noon, to the Prussian Army in the condition which 
it was at the time of the signing of the convention. . . . 
The discussion of Article 3rd was resumed. ‘ In recognition 
of the courage of the French army, it was stipulated, the 
King authorizes those officers who will undertake not to 
serve against Germany until the end of the war to return 
home with their swords.’ ” 

“ Oh,” said Du Breuil, his face purple. 

“ Yes, it is a singular way of recognizing the army’s 
courage! ... Fay and then Samuel bravely protested. Why 
not accord the whole army the honours of war, the last de- 
file? Stiehle categorically refused. He also refused to let 
all the officers have their swords. ‘ I will refer the matter to 
the Marshal,’ Jarras said. Stiehle appeared very irritated. 
‘ What ! ’ he cried, ‘ we shall not sign to-night ? ’ Finally, 
after a long debate, Article 3rd was drawn up in two ways — 


368 


THE DISASTER. 


one granting and the other not granting honours. Stiehle 
even asked : ‘ How would you that your troops should defile 
in such weather, and over such roads, numerous as they 
are?’ And Fay, on the spot, drew up some routes. They 
made a rendezvous for to-day. Stiehle wanted it for the 
morning, but it was already two o’clock. Samuel drew near 
to Jarras, murmuring: ‘Don’t fix an hour, try to gain 
time. . . .’” 

“ Parbleu ! ” said Du Breuil. 

“ All the more so,” resumed Decherac, “ as yesterday, be- 
fore setting off, Samuel, fancy to yourself, was translating 
newspapers in Bazaine’s ofilce. . . . Commissary General 
Lebrun entered, crying : ‘ Good news. Monsieur le Mai echal ! 
We have still provisions for four days ! ’ But Stiehle in- 
sisted, and they sign at five o’clock this evening.” 

It was now almost daylight. A gray morning, drowned 
in fog, emerged. All three looked at their cadaverous faces 
in the livid light. Decherac shook Du Breuil and Restaud 
by the hands, and left with an anxious gesture. When alone 
the two friends could not find a word to say. Phrases rose, 
however, to their lips. Dissent and complaints filled their 
souls. Words stuck in their throats. At last Restaud 
asked : 

“ I shall see very little of you to-day? You are going to 
Metz?” 

To Metz. . . . Ah! yes, the funeral of Major de Sahuque. 

. . . He was one of Du Breuil’s friends, nursed at the Grand 
Seminary; a Major in the Cuirassiers of the Guard, who 
had been wounded like a brave man in the Rezonville charge, 
and who had died like a Christian on the previous day. 

“ I shall return immediately,” he murmured. 

They were thinking of the possibilities which lurked in 
the formidable unknown of these twenty-four hours. That 
evening the capitulation signed, to-morrow the funereal prep- 
arations, and, hovering over each minute, the inverse flight 
of their thoughts, one all revolt, the other all discipline. 
Under Restaud’s attitude, unyielding owing to savage will 
power, his mind inflexibly made up to submit and be silent, 
Du Breuil thought he could distinguish an affectionate cen- 
sure. 

“ Au revoir,” he said suddenly ; “ I’m going to bury this 
unfortunate man.” 


THE DISASTER. 


369 


Restaud shook his head, then, with terrible bitterness, he 
said: 

“You mean to say that fortunate man!” 


CHAPTER IL 

A NUMBER of officers had assembled at the Chapel of the 
Grand Seminary. The gigantic statures of the survivors of 
the charge rose in the front rank. Couchorte dominated 
them by a head. And behind gold and silver epaulets, hum- 
ble epaulets of red wool also pressed, good, big Cuirassiers, 
very thin, who had come there because they loved their chief. 
In addition, there were all the able-bodied wounded of the 
establishment, a few civilians, and some priests. Du Breuil 
was not surprised to see Judin, who he knew to be a friend 
of the deceased. They shook hands in silence. A little red 
ribbon, the colour of spilt blood, ornamented the Viscount’s 
fashionable coat. Suddenly, upon turning his head, Du 
Breuil’s heart received a little shock. D’Avol was behind 
them. 

He felt a mortal trouble come over him. His internal 
wound quivered. The last few days it had somewhat healed. 
So many sorrows! ... To think of it had reopened it. An 
intolerable pain shot through him. His wounded friendship 
bled. 

The bald-headed priest, wearing a black chasuble, was 
earnestly mumbling the words of the gradual: In memoriu 
ceterna erit justus. . . . The altar and catafalque candles, a 
coffin on trestles, shone. An odour of w'ax and incense im- 
pregnated the somewhat stifling atmosphere in which each 
one was unbending himself in meditation. 

Du Breuil experienced only a feeling of aversion and 
rancour. Offences, misunderstandings, then bitterness and 
secret hostility, Anally evident unfriendliness with words 
which cut and thoughts which poison, he lived over again, in 
a second, hours of suffering. The abscess burst in an out- 
burst of hatred. Hatred all the more bitter as it was poi- 
soned with affection. Anine’s pure face was mingled with 
it painfully. 


370 


THE DISASTER. 


In the silence, broken by coughs and the clanking of 
swords, the priest’s voice intoned the terrible hymn; 

“ Dies irse, dies ilia, 

Solvet sasclum in favilla. . . 


Du Breuil found himself a young man again, in the days 
w^hen he still went to church, moved by the incomparable 
splendour of the Catholic ritual. The same emotion was 
softening the majority of those rude military faces. They 
were thinking, in connection with themselves, of the various 
events in life and death which religion accompanied. Emo- 
tion hovered over the melancholy stanzas. In the Latin 
tongue the trumpets of the Last Judgment rang out: 

“ Tuba mirum spargens sonum 
Per sepulchra rej^ionum, 

Coget omnes ante thronum.” 

Yes, the century was crumbling into dust. That death, 
to which they had consecrated themselves by their profession, 
was there, crouching around them, within them. Du Breuil, 
horrified, felt the passing breath of the invisible Mower. The 
Borny battlefield stretched out under the moon its harvest of 
corpses. The battlefields of Gravelotte, Rezonville, Mars- 
la-Tour, Amanvillers, Saint-Privat, and Servigny, appeared 
before him, ploughed up with shells, and sown over with 
bones. The rich, ruddy soil of Lorraine turned his stomach. 
Through the walls he breathed a pestilential musty smell, 
which was the breath even of Metz, of the streets infected 
with phenol and chlorine, and of the stinking cemeteries. 
And he, Du Breuil, was dying like the others. Ah ! war, the 
horrible, odious thing! It had taken Lacoste from him. It 
had taken D’Avol from him living. He felt himself miser- 
able and alone. 

A bell tinkled. There was a movement of chairs, a bow- 
ing forward of heavy shoulders and bronzed faces. Some 
knelt down. One enormous Cuirassier, above bowed fore- 
heads, ostentatiously stuck out his chest as though for a 
challenge. The bell still tinkled in the deep silence. . . . 
Then they heard an abrupt chuckle. It was Couchorte who, 
tossing his head, was giving vent to his pride. They tried 
to lead him out, but he made a sign that they were to leave 
him alone. It was nothing; he was already getting better. 


THE DISASTER. 


371 


With instinctive repulsion, Du Breuil felt D’Avol’s breath 
on his back. He only had to turn round and their hands 
might have clasped, their eyes might have penetrated into 
each other as in former times. But an irresistible force 
riveted him to his seat. Every second the gulf between them 
increased. The priest, who had come down from the altar, 
pronounced the absolution. Athwart the sacramental words 
shone a corner of heaven: Requiem ceternam dona ei, Domine. 
. . . Et lux perpetua luceat ei. . , . Then he psalmodized, 
in a plain-chant voice, the supreme cry, De profundis, and 
the words were lost in a mute prayer. . . . Finally, he raised 
the silver holy-water sprinkler, for the quadruple gesture 
which nails to coffins an imaginary cross. 

Those present filed out. Du Breuil was about to follow 
when the noise of a disturbance arose. He saw Couchorte 
struggling between two officers. The giant was speaking 
with volubility, his eyes starting out of his head: 

“ Cavalry is a first-rate fighting tool! Trumpet sound to 
saddle at six o’clock. ... We are betrayed, dishonoured! 
. . . Sabre in hand ! ” 

He had half drawn his sword. Foaming at the mouth, 
he was challenging Bismarck, and, on the threshold of the 
chapel, he was still shouting in a harsh voice: 

‘‘ For the attack ! . . . Charge ! ” 

They led him away. 

The shock to Du Breuil’s disordered nerves was so great 
that again he experienced a loathing of life. War intoxi- 
cated him with disgust. This time he descended to the very 
depths of misery and solitude. He found himself outside. 
Judin’s voice called to him: 

“ Pierre ! ” 

Maxime was talking with D’Avol. ... It was, indeed, 
the familiar silhouette, tall and slender, the self-willed wrin- 
kle on the forehead, the concentrated ardour in the eyes! 
It was, indeed, the same Jacques he had always known, al- 
ways loved! . . . And now they were enemies! Du Breuil, 
in his love of loving, in his native egoism, suffered to the 
full. Could they never, then, understand each other, sup- 
port and aid each other? . . . Why cut in this way the poor 
bonds of affection which connect one to life? Life was so 
sad, so precarious! . . . Bashfully, he loyally held out his 
hand to D’Avol. . . . Jacques, with a disdainful gesture. 


372 


THE DISASTER. 


gave his — “ What is the good ? ” said his icy look. . . . Du 
Breuil imagined he might have been shaking a piece of 
rag. The contact of this soft thing, the soul of which was 
absent, was to him a supreme laceration, an atrocious wound, 
caused by rage and humiliation. 

“You’ll take luncheon with me?” said Judin to them. 

No. D’Avol had business elsewhere; he thanked him in 
a trenchant tone, and, with intractable face, parted com- 
pany without further farewell. 

“What a bear!” exclaimed Judin. 

Du Breuil let himself drift — be led away. 

“ You’re going to see, Pierre, how curious the Hotel du 
Nord is at this time.” And, in the presence of the sullen 
silence of his friend, Judin added: “You’ll find there a few 
men of courage. Brave fellows like Clinchant, Boissonnet, 
Charlys, Barrus, Carrouge, Bossel, Cremer. . . . The first 
demonstration against Bazaine took place yesterday. A Cap- 
tain in the Carabineers gave it a start. The Majors of the 
National Guard have promised their support. It’s a long 
time, however, since that has been in preparation. Lad- 
mirault and Changarnier did well to refuse to take the head 
of the movement. Thank God there are other generals! 
First of all, Clinchant. They speak also of Boisjol. . . . 
Are you with them ? ” 

Du Breuil, agitated with hope, seized hold of the idea. 
Judin continued: 

“You don’t know anything, then? Hasn’t Charlys asked 
you to sign the small paper ? He is one of the leaders ! . . . 
But he only wants to make a sortie, that is to say, what 
honour commands, eh ? ” 

Du Breuil gravely made a sign of acquiescence. Res- 
taud’s thought, however, troubled him. 

“ A few of the discontented go further,” continued Judin. 
“ These speak of nothing less than deposing the Marshal, 
and offering the command to the worthiest.” He winked. 
“ D’Avol, Barrus, and others that you know, preach that 
way. All the same, it’s a little severe.” 

Du Breuil was thinking. The Provisional Government, 
on September 4th, did nothing else but that. The Empire 
itself was born from a coup d’etat. There was not a power 
which had not sprung from violence, and was not based on 
disdain for laws which until then had been considered good. 


THE DISASTER. 


373 


But a secret voice whispered to him : “ Let ambitious men 
think thus. Obey and keep silent. Unless an army is dis- 
ciplined it has no raison d’Hre. Its grandeur and force is 
the result alone of deaf, dumb, blind discipline.” . . . Again' 
the cry of common-sense dominated: Passive obedience to- 
day would be a crime. When a general-in-chief loses his 
head, neglects his duties, and surrenders his troops, the sub- 
alterns should take counsel only of their courage and attach- 
ment to the country. . . . 

“ The officers of the Engineers,” said Judin, have per- 
suaded Colonel Boissonnet to place himself at their head. 
As soon as Clinchant has twenty thousand men he will take 
the general command. Meeting at one o’clock this after- 
noon to count. ... You will number thirty thousand to- 
morrow ! ” 

Yes, it was deliverance, salvation! Du Breuil, with fever- 
ish joy, imagined that he could at last discern his true duty. 
Let D’Avol and Barrus conspire after their own fashion! 
Let Bazaine and his generals cowardly stretch out their 
necks towards the final carcan! He, Du Breuil, an obscure 
soldier of the sacred battalion, far removed from these guilty 
plots as from this ignominy, would proceed down the bloody 
road with head oil high. The sun of France shone brilliantly 
at the end! 

Then again he saw Restaud’s ardent face, his eyes of a 
fanatic, in which danced the light of the far-off little altar- 
lamp. How far, he thought, could the strictness of a prin- 
ciple lead one! 

After luncheon, consisting of stewed horse, horse steaks, 
and horse pie — “ You are requested to bring your own 
bread” was the recommendation on white notices stuck on 
the mirrors — the large room of the cafe commenced to fill. 
More than sixty officers crowded there already. 

“Ah, there you are, Du Breuil! That’s good, friend,” 
said Charlys, warmly shaking hands. 

He showed a tired face, sparkling eyes, hollow cheeks. 
His large body was slightly bowed. He had passed the after- 
noon of the previous day in making journeys, applications, 
in recruiting adherents. He appeared somewhat sad, as 
though he doubted beforehand of success. Du Breuil shook 
Carrouge and Barrus by the hand. 

“We must act without delay,” continued Charlys. 


371 


THE DISASTER. 


“ Is it true,” uttered Barrus, “ that there are still four 
days’ provisions ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Charlys. I was with Samuel in Bazaine’s 
office when the Commissary General of Stores came to an- 
nounce it. Lebrun affirmed that with what remains hidden 
away in Metz, with the thirteen thousand living horses, one 
can hold out still longer. Do you know what reply the Mar- 
shal made ? ‘ What has that to do with me. Commissary of 
Stores? If you had provisions for a fortnight, it wouldn’t 
alter the situation. Pourparlers are opened. We must finish 
with this, and get away.’ ” 

“ Death to the traitor ! ” came from the stentorian voice 
of the Captain of Carabineers who had distinguished him- 
self on the previous day by his virulence. 

“ He’s throwing the mask off now ! ” growled Carrouge. 
“You should have heard him five days ago, when Lapasset 
went to see him! One of the General’s Aides-de-camp told 
me this. Lapasset wished to make a sortie with his brigade. 
Bazaine was already informed of that. * Lapasset, come 
now I ’ ” Carrouge imitated the Marshal’s good-natured 
tone, his crafty frankness. “ ‘ Ho rashness, no individual 
action ! ’ At that moment Canrobert entered. The General 
making as if to withdraw through deference, Bazaine re- 
sumed: ‘Ho, remain! Lapasset, you’re welcome!’ And, 
taking a map, he made them sit down. Then, turning to- 
wards Canrobert, he said : ‘ Marshal, I’m in a cruel perplex- 
ity. I haven’t the slightest news of Boyer or the Empress; 
provisions are lacking ; we must make a sortie ! ’ Bending 
over the map, he said: ‘It will be for Monday. You, Mar- 
shal, will be the right column, and will take the Cheminot 
road. Leboeuf will form the left column, and will follow 
the Strasburg road. I shall be in the centre, with the La- 
passet brigade to assist both. But we must not hide one 
thing: safety is in our legs. Woe to him who falls, for he 
won’t be picked up! . . . The direction? Chateau- Salins. 
. . . Once there, I will decide. ... We shall have almost 
no artillery or provisions. But I repeat, our safety will be 
in our legs.’ And when Lapasset, transported, cried, ‘Thanks, 
Marshal! We are the last French army. If we must fall, 
may posterity, at least, uncover before us! . . .’ he replied: 
‘Ho; we shall break through in a body. Come, we shall not 
die!’ And in conclusion he said: ‘You understand the 


THE DISASTER. 


375 


gravity of these words, gentlemen? I needn’t advise you to 
keep secret. Go to your quarters, and await my orders.’ 
Now, Monday,” concluded Carrouge, “ was the 24th, the day 
upon which news of Boyer was received, the day upon which 
the final decision was taken : Let us capitulate ! ” 

^‘Tartuffe!” gnashed Barrus. ‘^He has no more moral 
sense than a pebble.” 

“ Only lay the blame on yourselves, gentlemen demo- 
crats!” jeered Carrouge. “You wanted him for a leader, 
and you have him.” 

“We wdll depose him!” said Barrus, whose eyes were 
sparkling. 

“ Shoot him ! ” gesticulated the Carabineer. “ There are 
several who need a little lead in their heads.” 

A Lieutenant of Voltigeurs was perorating in the middle 
of a group. 

“ First of all, we must replace all the members of the 
council. Canrobert, Leboeuf, and Frossard are sold to the 
Empire. Coffinieres is treading in their footsteps. Only 
Ladmirault is sound. As to Soleille ” — he made a move- 
ment in imitation of a head which falls — “ into the basket ! 
. . . Appoint me Captain, and I’ll undertake to raise my 
company ! ” 

Du Breuil recognised Marquis’s shrill voice and silly 
smile. Colonel Boissonnet stood aside with some officers of 
the Engineers. He perceived Rossel, determination in his 
obstinate eyes. Captain Cremer, Clinchant’s Aide-de-camp — 
the General had been unable to come — and Captain de Serres. 
The last-named came and saluted Du Breuil. 

“ Major D’Avol was, unfortunately, on duty,” he an- 
nounced. “ He will be consoled by making proselytes.” 

Lieutenant Thomas shot a look of approval from his red 
eye. Major Leperche, Bourbaki’s Aide-de-camp, who wished 
at all costs to rejoin his chief, was making a great fuss. The 
uproar increased. Discussions became virulent. Charlys in 
vain asked for silence, begged that they count themselves. 
. . . Time was pressing if they wished to make a sortie in a 
body! . . . Becriminations and complaints came from all 
sides. This one should be dismissed, that one should be ex- 
alted. An enthusiast jumped on to a table, and offered him- 
self as General-in-Chief. Charlys decided that they meet 
the next day in the offices of the Engineers at the Esplanade 
25 


376 


THE DISASTER. 


to finish coming to an understanding. One by one the supe- 
rior officers went off, leaving Captains and Lieutenants to 
continue in the midst of cries, like big children, their sterile 
debates. 

Du Breuil entered the Ban Saint-Martin with death in 
his soul. Must they, then, renounce the glorious hope of a 
sortie? So many good intentions ended in this — this market 
of interests, this mess! He imagined he could see in it the 
inevitable effect of a first breach of discipline, and with all 
his rage he cursed the traitors who had placed before him 
this horrible alternative of failing in his duties or accepting 
dishonour. 

Shortly before reaching the staff offices he nearly ran up 
against a long, dry man at the corner of a small, muddy 
street, which was overlooked by General Soleille’s house. 
Surprised in the midst of their thoughts, they looked at each 
other. He recognised Captain de Verdier, whose downcast 
face had moved him on the previous day. The Aide-de-camp^ 
seemed to be a prey to a terrible distress. As Du Breuil 
spontaneously held out his hand to him, the unfortunate 
man, yielding to an irresistible need to make confidences, 
suddenly unbosomed himself in a fiow of words. He would 
have made them to the first-comer. His loquacity relieved 
him. 

He would never survive such dishonour! The immense 
material of the army and the forts: mitrailleuses, cannon, 
rifles, more than twenty million projectiles — all that given 
up to the enemy without reserve! What was more, even 
before the signing of the capitulation, making them the mas- 
ters of these treasures, those accountable for them striving 
to preserve them intact! A French General yielding to this 
aberration, owing one knows not to what unacknowledgable 
scruples! And he, he, De Verdier, obliged to write these 
shameful orders with his own hands! . . . They might talk 
about inventories and restitution after the war! All those 
were lies! Hever would the Germans give up a bit. 

“ You can believe me or not, as you like. Major, but just 
now, at the meeting of Generals of artillery, Soleille sharply 
censured General de Berckheim for having made the mitra- 
illeuses of the 6th corps useless. Censured! yes, censured! 
an act of simple military duty which the whole army ought 
to imitate ! ” 


THE DISASTER. 


377 


And the colours ? ” asked Du Breuil. 

De Verdier paled. 

“That is enough to make one mad! . . . We informed 
the commanders of the corps this morning that, by the Mar- 
shal’s orders, they had to have them taken to the Arsenal. 
Colonel de Girels, the Governor, also received the order to 
preserve them. They will form part of the inventory drawn 
up by a commission of French and Prussian officers.” 

He burst into a harsh laugh. Du Breuil, stupefied, moved 
away. Each minute which slipped by was a small part of 
himself, which went away and was dissolved. All his ideas 
of honour heavily flew away. What madness, then, had 
taken possession of these men? 

An unusual commotion surprised him when passing be- 
fore Bazaine’s house. There was the same uproar at head- 
quarters. A great quantity of decorations had been given 
out in the morning. Some of them had bespattered the staff. 
Francastel was sporting a new pelisse with four galloons. A 
new cross shone on Massoli’s breast. He carried his head 
high with modesty, every now and then casting a satisfied 
look at his rosette. 

“ It finished by coming, and not too soon,” he replied to 
Du Breuil’s brief compliment. 

Francastel rushed towards his former chief, and, taking 
his hands, shook them familiarly. He was more than ever 
resolved to make a sortie ! He had even been present, he de- 
clared with unbelievable impudence, at the great afternoon 
meeting at the Hotel du ISTord. Everything was going well. 

Du Breuil, who did not remember having seen him, was 
sickened, and turned his back. Restaud, Decherac, and 
Laune were not at headquarters, so there were few friendly 
faces. He made himself acquainted with events from stout 
Jacquemere, whose inflammation was again troubling him. 
Hot very much was known. In the afternoon Jarras had re- 
ceived a letter from General von Stiehle, announcing that 
honours of war would be accorded to the French army, 
and that all the officers would be allowed their swords. He 
had immediately set off with Samuel and Fay for Frescati. 
Colonel Hugues was replacing him. That was all. Ah yes, 
there was something else ! . . . Captain de Mornay-Soult, on 
behalf of the Marshal, had come to tell Hugues, a quarter 
of an hour ago, to conclude a letter dealing with current 


378 


THE DISASTER. 


matters, which was going to be sent to the commanders of 
the corps, with the following postscriptum : “ In giving the 
order to take the colours to the Arsenal, the statement that 
they will be burnt there was omitted in error.” Nugues, sur- 
prised — since nobody had heard of this first order ! — had gone 
for information to Bazaine. . . . 

“A big piece of news!” ejaculated a voice. It was 
rioppe, who had returned from the bivouacs of the Guard. 
“ There is some squabbling down there. An order from the 
artillery, prescribing the deposit of the colours, had turned 
the Picard division upside down. Colonel Pean has just 
broken his eagle. I saw the staff sawn up and the silk torn. 
The Grenadiers are dividing the pieces between them.” 

Joy rose in Du BreuiFs heart. Had Bazaine, then, re- 
flected? A remnant of shame was palpitating in this soul 
of mud. ... 

“ They say,” continued Floppe, “ that Desvaux, on the 
application of General Picard, has asked His Excellency by 
letter for explanations!” 

All eyes were turned towards the door. Colonel Hugues 
entered. He held in his hand the minutes of two orders. 

“ Write, gentlemen,” he said to the officers on duty. 

To the Commanders of the Army Corps. 

Have the kindness to give orders that the eagles of the 
infantry regiments of your army corps be collected early 
to-morrow morning . . .” 

(“ Why to-morrow? ” thought Du Breuil. “ If they wish 
to destroy them before the capitulation, there is not a minute 
to be lost.”) 

“ . . . early to-morrow morning by your artillery com- 
mander and taken to the Metz Arsenal. You will inform the 
chiefs of the corps that they will be burnt there. These 
eagles, enclosed in their cases, will be carried in a closed 
waggon. The Governor of the Arsenal will receive them, 
and will deliver a receipt for them to the corps. 

“ (Signed) Bazaine.” 

One ! ” said Colonel Nugues ; “ now for the other.” 


THE DISASTER. 


379 


“To General Cofjinieres, Governor of Metz. 

“ Have the kindness to give orders that the Metz Arsenal 
receive to-morrow morning the eagles of the infantry regi- 
ments of all the army corps. . . 

The clear voice separated the words in the midst of 
silence. One heard the pens gliding over the paper. At the 
same time a secretary of the staff was marking a registry 
in the correspondence book. 

“ But they do not order him to have the eagles burnt,” 
remarked Du Breuil, when the order was dictated. 

“ Coffinieres doubtless knows all about it,” replied Col- 
onel Hugues. “ ‘ It is useless to say anything else to him,’ 
the Marshal clearly stated. And in the case of Soleille he 
added : “ ^ Don’t write to him. He may make difficulties. I 
intend to write to him when the moment arrives.’ ” 

Officers and secretaries had put down their pens, and with 
raised heads were waiting for the order to read over what 
they had written. 

“ You, Massoli,” said Hugues. 

In a monotonous voice, and in tlie midst of general in- 
difference, the stout man read over again: 

“ Have the kindness to give orders that the eagles of the 
infantry regiments ” 

“ It is inconceivable ! ” said Du Breuil to himself. He 
again saw Verdier with his bewildered eyes murmuring the 
strange confidence that a formal order to make an inventory 
of the colours had been given in the morning to Colonel de 
Girels. Bazaine’s fresh orders could only, then, be a ma- 
noeuvre to deceive the command,ers of the corps, to calm 
the army’s emotion, but leaving its detestable effect on primi- 
tive order. This idea was confirmed within him. First of 
all the transport of the eagles put off until the next day. 
Between now and then the capitulation would have taken 
place! Then silence on the subject of the burning in the 
letter to Coffinieres. Consequently Girels would confine 
himself to storing them in the Arsenal. And this way of act- 
ing towards Soleille. “ He may make difficulties I ” . . . 
Unworthy speech for a man who, sure of absolute obedience, 
of the complicity of his subordinate, still sought to give him- 
self the leading role at the expense of his neighbour. 


S80 


THE DISASTER. 


Like so many flashes these thoughts tore his soul. But 
they were only a small part of his sorrows and troubles ; they 
quickly passed. Other thoughts immediately followed — 
Lacoste! Bestaud! D’Avol! Anine! He wandered about 
for a long time in the rain and the mud. The autumn wind 
carried away the clouds; the last leaves turned somersaults 
in the air soaked in water. Interminable hours of agony 
passed. Evening, like a tombstone, at last fell. 

Eight o’clock was striking when he found himself in his 
room, where a good fire was burning. A noise behind the 
partition told him that Bestaud was there. He knocked 
several times on the wall. After a moment the door opened 
and Bestaud appeared. His boots covered with mud, his 
soaked clothes, and his face discomposed with fatigue, 
showed that he also had been walking for a long time without 
plan or purpose. He sat down near the fireplace, and then 
said, in a voice which wished to appear gay : 

“ You’re very comfortable.” 

Mme. Guimbail, by a touching attention, had given to 
Erisch some old pieces of wood studded with nails, although 
her small stock had diminished. She came herself to place 
them in the room, to prepare the fire and to light the lamp. 

“ Bless me, it’s true ! ” exclaimed Du Breuil, who only 
just noticed it. He drew up some chairs, and they crouched 
in a chilled fashion in the semicircular flood of light. The 
flame darted out its golden tongues, licking the wet wood, 
which groaned and smoked, or else, crackling, sent forth jets 
of blue, scarlet, and yellow sunlight. They looked at it in 
silence. 

“ At this hour,” said Du Breuil at last, “ everything must 
be concluded. We are dopbtless prisoners.” 

Bestaud sharply raised his head, and, as though he was 
going to meet the struggle, said : 

^‘Well?” 

Do you accept that ? ” murmured Du Breuil, with a bit- 
ter smile. 

“ There is a kind of joy in the accomplishment of the 
worst duty,” replied Bestaud hardly. 

“ It remains to be known what is one’s true duty,” said 
Du Breuil. 

Does a soldier ask that ? ” cried Bestaud, with indig- 
nant sorrow. 


THE DISASTER. 


381 


Du Breuil reflected a moment. 

“ You are right,” he declared. There is only one duty, 
just as there is only one honour. . ; . It is not the first time, 
unfortunately, that a French army has capitulated. Recol- 
lect Dupont, at Baylen ! Twenty-five thousand men sur- 
rendered to the Spaniards without a fight. Only Major de 
Sainte-Eglise declared there was no longer any orders to be 
received from a General who was a prisoner. He brought 
back his battalion to Madrid, and the Emperor made him a 
Colonel on the spot.” 

“He ought to have made him a General,” said Restaud, 
“ and then shot him.” 

“ Ah yes,” railed Du Breuil. “ Always your system ! . . . 
Passive obedience, resignation. I know — I know! No, 
friend. In a situation like ours the resolution to die is 
alone worthy and salutary.” 

He rose to his feet with a bound, took the tattered 
seventh volume of Napoleon’s “ Memoires,” and read in 
a feverish voice : “ ‘ What apparently impossible things 
have been done by resolute men with no other resources than 
death.’ . . .” 

“And he is a judge,” continued Du Breuil; “one does 
not challenge.” 

“ Yes,” said Restaud. “ Pride binds him. . . . What you 
take for the cry of honour is only the cry of pride. Now, a 
soldier like you and I, a simple figure, ought not to have 
pride. Such a death would be foolish, because a soldier is 
not responsible for the faults of his chief; it would be a 
crime, because he can no more dispose of his death than of 
his life. And do you think such a renunciation is not with- 
out terrible torture? . . . But rest assured our sacrifice will 
be counted. The bitterest duty bears fruit, and what we have 
sown we shall some day gather in.” 

Du Breuil looked at Restaud’s face, and recollecting the 
unfruitful afternoon meeting, he sat down again with a dis- 
couraged air. 

“ Listen, my poor friend,” continued Restaud; “ let us bet 
that you arrive at nothing to-day ? ” 

Du Breuil kept silent. It was painful to admit the fail- 
ure of his dream, the vain tumult of the meeting, the post- 
ponement of projects until the next day. 

“Your silence answers,” said Restaud. “You were one 


382 


THE DISASTER. 


hundred to-day; you will be ten to-morrow. Such under- 
takings are condemned beforehand.” 

“ ]^o,” protested Du Breuil. “ There are already more 
than five thousand adherents. And if we were only one 
hundred, only ten, we ought to make a sortie, all the same.” 

“I cannot admit that,” declared Restaud. “Yesterday 
when you spoke of making a sortie in a body, I respected 
your chimera. ‘ We shall be twenty thousand,’ you said, 
and you counted on finding a leader. You see, not one has 
dared to violate the terrible rule. And now you are going 
to fall back on individual effort, but in this case I affirm to 
you with all my friendship that you are on the wrong track.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because the same chain binds all of us. Nobody has a 
right to avoid the common humiliation and pain. The foetid 
water and the black bread must be divided until it is finished. 
Think of the unfortunate soldiers! We brought them here; 
we must not leave without them. Are we going to abandon 
them — we, the sheep-dogs — when they are going to drag 
themselves along by thousands over the roads of Germany ? ”• 

“We can make ourselves more useful elsewhere.” 

Bestaud shook his head : 

“ Your place is in their midst. Think well about it, my 
dear fellow. There is a sacred obligation above ideas and 
personal suffering — the solidarity of misfortune. To flee 
from it is desertion.” 

“ You need not say any more about it,” sighed Du Breuil, 
who was, however, shaken. “ It is terrible ! ” 

Restaud took his hand, looked in his eyes, and, in a 
broken voice, simply said : 

“ Yes.” 

The fire was burning out; it consisted of brands from 
which every now and then twisted a thin flame, incandescent 
embers downy with bluish ashes. They followed the dying 
reflection with their thoughts. They remained thus in a 
state of silent stupor, for a long time. About eleven o’clock 
the rumbling of a vehicle dragged them from it. The fire 
was extinguished. 

“ There they are! ” exclaimed Du Breuil, jumping up. 

Both shivered at the thought of this obscure cab which 
was carrying through the night the sentence of the town 
and the army. 


THE DISASTER. 


383 


“We must go for news,” said Restaud sharply, as though 
he had retained a ray of hope. 

Outside the icy humidity penetrated them. The wind 
was still blowing. Pelting rain. Their lantern several 
times almost went out. Du Breuil, whose fingers were 
numbed, had to shield it with his cloak. They advanced with 
difficulty, being up to the ankles in liquid mud. At last they 
reached the house occupied by Decherac. The door was wide 
open, as though death had just entered. They found their 
comrade seated in the dark on one of the staircase steps. 

“ Samuel has just arrived,” he said. “ He is in his room 
there. He won’t see anybody.” 

In the light of the lantern his face appeared very pale. 
This time his smile was shrivelled up by rage. In short, 
bitter phrases, he detailed what he knew. It was finished, 
signed, settled! The army, the town were surrendered pris- 
oners ! ... As a peace ransom, the officers might take their 
baggage into Germany ! They could even keep their swords, 
since that pleased them. As to those who undertook no 
longer to serve in the war, they were free . . . Bazaine al- 
lowed them to go. Frederick Charles begged them to do so. 
.... They recognised the courage of the French army in 
consequence! . . . Decherac jeered. But there was a still 
more dishonouring clause ! Bazaine refused — yes, refused — 
the honours of war which had been asked for on the previous 
day with so many earnest entreaties, and which had at last 
been accorded in answer to their prayers ! 

“ What ! ” cried Du Breuil. “ The only compensation ! ” 

“Yes,” said Decherac. “Does that astonish you? It 
doesn’t me.” He smiled heartrendingly. “ Hot such a fool 
as to defile more than one hundred thousand armed men, still 
capable of brandishing a sword or a rifle, before an enemy 
the very sight of which would have maddened these unfor- 
tunates! . . . But what he refused for all he might, don’t 
you think, have asked for a few. Honour was safe . . . 
only he never thought of it. . . . Ho ! Imagine the stupefac- 
tion of Stiehle himself when Jarras declared that Bazaine 
saw difficulties in the way of the execution of the clause ! . . . 
‘What difficulties?’ asked Stiehle. And Jarras stammered: 

‘ The weather is bad, the ground and the roads deplorable. 

. . . It will doubtless be difficult to defile. . . .’ To which 
Stiehle replied : ‘ These considerations never exist in the 


384 


THE DISASTER. 


case of the Prussian army.’ Then Jarras proposed, while 
renouncing the defile, to specify all the same in the document 
that honours of war were accorded. ^ Let us write it down,’ 
he said, ‘ but do not let us carry it out.’ But Stiehle de- 
clared : ‘ That which is written will be executed,’ ” 

Du Breuil sought for Restaud’s face in the darkness. 
His head was obstinately bowed. His hands hanging down 
alone slightly trembled. 

“ And do you know,” continued Decherac, “ one of the 
motives for which Bazaine no longer wishes this ‘ formality ’ ? 
I wonder if you can guess it? The difiiculty of contenting 
the Generals in regard to their positions in consequence of 
the difference in their ranks and personal situations! . . . 
But the true motive, the one which he has been unable to 
say, is his shame of reappearing before the army, his fear of 
our insults and our scorn.” 

“ Assuredly,” said Du Breuil, “ he would have proudly 
filed past the first had he done everything which honour and 
duty requires. He judges and condemns himself by his 
refusal.” 

“ That is not all,” exclaimed Decherac. “ There are the 
colours. Has not this gloomy imbecile taken care to draw 
the enemy’s attention to them! By his orders, Jarras in- 
formed Stiehle that there would not be very many eagles to 
give up, alleging that the custom of troops in our unfor- 
tunate country was to burn the flag upon the occasion cf each 
new Government. Stiehle naturally smiled. ‘ Ho, General, 
I don’t believe that that has been done. But it is quite 
understood that everything which remains — colours as well 
as material — is ours.’ And what is more equivocal,” con- 
cluded Decherac, “ is that, in giving Jarras his instructions 
before leaving, Bazaine added : ‘ I know there are some 
colours burnt, and I don’t want Prince Frederick Charles to 
accuse me of having broken my engagements.’ ” 

There was deep silence. After a moment, Decherac re- 
sumed : 

“ But the worst is that in drawing up the appendix — a 
series of articles concerning Metz which were proposed by 
Coffinieres — Stiehle commenced to speak of the measures 
which the Prussian authorities intended to take for the 
transport of the prisoners. Once our troops were conducted 
to the German lines by their officers, the latter would flrst of 


THE DISASTER. 


385 


all be evacuated. ‘ As to the eighty thousand soldiers/ he 
added. . . . ‘But there are many more/ protested Jarras. 
‘Yes, I know, with the invalids and wounded. . . .’ ‘ No, not 
at all,’ repeated J arras. ‘ There are a hundred and twenty- 
six thousand combatants, without counting the Metz gar- 
rison, the invalids and the wounded — more than a hundred 
and sixty thousand men.’ Stiehle contented himself by re- 
plying: ‘Really, is that possible?’ Stupor, which was de- 
picted on his face, said more than words. . . .” 

“ Really, is that possible ? ” They felt these words like 
the burning of a red-hot iron. 

Decherac rose abruptly. 

“ Au revoir, gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “ Good luck ! ” 

They redescended the staircase, plunging into the dark- 
ness and the rain. Du Breuil was bathed in cold perspira- 
tion. Had they at last drained the cup? Could they de- 
scend deeper into ignominy? Then all the plotting in con- 
nection with the colours appeared before him; they were 
a package to be sent to Berlin; to-morrow morning they 
would be taken to the Arsenal, intact in their closed waggons. 
If some of them unfortunately escaped, Bazaine was excused 
beforehand. . . . Pugh! he put his foot in a rut. The mud 
splashed in his face. Restaud, with his face turned away, 
was walking by his side. They advanced in silence, lashed 
in the face by a wind mingled with rain. 

The lantern sent out a troubled light, which made the sur- 
rounding night appear darker. . . . Du Breuil saw once 
more a similar light. It was swinging in the hand of a man 
of the guard; it guided him in a starlit night towards La- 
coste’s room; it revealed a barracks full of men and horses 
asleep in their force. The arms shone, and in the hoarse 
breathing of the Lancers was the energy of France. . . . 

A gust of wind blew out the flame. 

They found themselves plunged in an ocean of darkness, 
in which they distinguished neither heaven nor earth. 
Groping and stumbling, it seemed to them they were found- 
ering in the wind, the rain, and the mud. The mud — how 
they were sinking in it! ... It clasped them, rose, filled 
their mouths, eyes, and ears. . . . Like a drowning man, 
Du Breuil in a flash lived over again so many feverish days 
from the illusions at the commencement to the downfall. 
Restaud, more and more sullen, was silent. 


386 


THE DISASTER. 


Suddenly a shrill tune arose. They recognised the modu- 
lation of the little flute. It alternately wept and laughed on 
Jubault’s lips. In his hlaque fauhourienne, he was beguiling 
distress and sarcasm. One would have said the feeble voice 
was the very breath of the army. Its revengeful complaint 
had something bitter about it which pierced the heart. Du 
Breuil, guided by the sound, said : 

“ Here is our house.” 

A ray of light Altered through the stable windowsL Los- 
ing breath, the little flute became harsh and laughing. Bes- 
taud, who was exasperated by it, shook the door with a kick. 
There was nothing but darkness and silence. 


CHAPTER III. 

After crossing the Moyen-Pont Du Breuil struck off to 
the right. The meeting was at nine o’clock at the barracks 
of the Engineers. The nearest way was to follow the Rue de 
la Garde, and to skirt the Esplanade. 

Although the meeting on the previous day had appeared 
to him to augur badly, he clung to the hope of a sortie en 
masse with an ardour all the more desperate as he felt the 
branch cracking beneath him. Restaud’s words had haunted 
him the whole night. If the mirage of a supreme sortie, 
headed by a responsible, qualified chief, vanished — and Du 
Breuil would only think with infinite perplexity of the case 
of conscience of an individual flight. Then, what there 
slumbered within him of adventure and passion arose 
with violence, but the feeling of discipline and this new 
idea of solidarity immediately bound him in every limb; 
they were chains revealed by their tension. 

In the rain and the wind, more furious every day, the 
leafless quincunx, in rows, of the Esplanade, swayed their 
skeleton branches. He passed near large conical tents made 
into ambulances. Twenty wounded men shivered under each 
of them. Through the stiffened canvas, hermetically closed, 
he heard broken words, groans, and death-rattles. He im- 
agined that pain-stricken flesh rolling on its camp-beds, the 


THE DISASTER. 


387 


wretched, torn blankets, the water filtering through a thou- 
sand holes, the ground turned into a lake, the heavy, moist 
atmosphere. He hurried on. The immense sigh from the 
suffering camp pursued him like a murmur of appeal. A 
little further on, on the Place Royale, long piles of waggons 
formed avenues of hospitals, continually crossed by the raised 
cassock of a priest, the turned-down hood of a doctor. Every 
step was the hurried coming and going of infirmary attend- 
ants under their streaming umbrellas. Certain waggons 
were overfiowing with the wounded. Death had thinned oth- 
ers. Through the chinks of doors he saw stretched out forms, 
pale faces, pale linen, all the horror of sanies and black 
blood. And from these motionless waggons, in which so 
many unfortunates, soldiers like himself, were completing 
their human journey, an immense sigh also rose. He thought 
he could hear the lament of dear voices — Lacoste, Restaud, 
Vedel. . . . Through the complaint of the wounded passed 
the far-off hum of the army, and cries rose in himself, he- 
reditary echoes of a line of soldiers. That feeble sigh! It 
was his father who uttered it, his arm shattered in the aban- 
don of a Kabyle battle-field; that harsh complaint escaped, 
under the sword of BliichePs horsemen, from the lips of his 
grandfather, a Lieutenant of the last square at Waterloo; that 
death-rattle was the agony of his great-uncle, commander of 
a demi-brigade at Valmy. His heart replied to the murmur 
of appeal. 

Someone called to him. Carrouge! 

“ Useless to push on as far as the barracks, my dear fel- 
low. I have come from there. You’ll only find Rossel seated 
at a table with two white paper books before him. They 
come in and out. Curious for information, Adjutant-Majors' 
sent by their Colonels to ask for explanations. . . . He notes 
down the effectives, the positions and the movement. ... A 
pupil of the Polytechnic at the same time makes a registry 
on a large map of the intrenched camp. Five thousand six 
hundred men are inscribed. Clinchant will be there at one 
o’clock. His Aide-de-camp has promised it. That is making 
progress ! ” 

He appeared to be very pleased. His complexion, of a 
dry pimenta, shone with hope. He vigorously rubbed his 
hands together. 

We did good business this morning. The colours ” 


388 


THE DISASTER. 


“Well?” said Du Breuil with a start, seized by the hor- 
rible suspicion. 

Carrouge made an energetic gesture. 

“ Burnt, destroyed ! ... Not a colour of the Guard is 
left. The Grenadiers and the Zouaves commenced by de- 
stroying theirs yesterday spontaneously. And when the Mar- 
shal’s orders came, do you know what Jeanningros replied? 
‘ The colours have been torn up by my orders ; the staffs 
and the eagles have been sawn up. The colours of my bri- 
gade shall not go to Berlin.’ Isn’t that speaking out? All 
the others were taken at break of day to the Arsenal by 
Melchior, the chief of the artillery staff. I saw the waggon 
and the escort pass — a Lieutenant and four non-commis- 
sioned officers on horseback. I followed. It was hardly light. 
We entered with the first workmen. They lit the forge 
furnace, and before the workmen and a few Chasseurs and 
Voltigeurs who happened to be there the fiags were unfurled. 
Melchior cut off the numbers of the regiments, and then a 
white-haired Adjutant, a veteran, burnt the silk, sawed the 
staffs to pieces, hammered and cut the eagles. You should 
have seen his hands trembling. Not one is left, I swear to 
you,” he said, wiping away a tear. “ Then I left, sick at 
heart.” 

Du Breuil clasped Carrouge’s arm. 

“ And the others,” he murmured — “ the other colours ? 
Are they burning them ? ” 

“ Ma foi!” said Carrouge, “I suppose so. ... We ar- 
rived the first. When I was leaving the forge I saw Colonel 
de Girels. The old Adjutant had also destroyed a few 
cavalry standards which had been deposited at the Arsenal, 
it appears, for some time. He was in the act of breaking 
the last eagle, and said to the Colonel : ^ Here’s one at least 
which the Prussians shall not have ! ’ De Girels seemed 
pleased.” 

Du Breuil retained a feeling of disquietude. He told 
Carrouge of Captain de Verdier’s confidence, the order to 
preserve the colours and make an inventory of them. 

“We must be distrustful of everything,” said Carrouge. 
“ Let’s go to the Arsenal.” 

They followed the Rue S.erpenoise, the Rue du Plat- 
d’Etain, and the Rue Taison. Everywhere, in the rain, were 
anxious groups and sad faces. On the thresholds of the doors 


THE DISASTER. 


389 


old women were on the look-out for news. Hanging from a 
window was the faded shred of a tricolour flag — a sorry 
remnant of the decorations. Certain shops, full of unsale- 
able objects, were half closed, their shutters were up; on the 
other hand, grocers’, pork-butchers’, confectioners’, and fruit- 
erers’ shops were completely devastated, only showing bare 
walls and empty shelves. The blockade had left its mark 
even in the relations of life. Only needs which were neces- 
sities were satisfled, and what was ruin to one part of com- 
merce enriched the other part. 

At the corner of the Protestant Church they met Barrus, 
who was very excited. He had come from the Arsenal. 

“ Do you know what is happening ? ” he said. “ They are 
polishing, cleaning, and repairing. Instead of surrendering 
to the enemy a dismantled fort and useless material, they are 
putting everything in order, counting everything down to 
the last nail. A civil engineer has just been summoned to 
put a large bore cannon, which was damaged by a Prussian 
bullet, in order. To think that two days ago we were still 
mounting cannon on the ramparts. . . .” 

“ The capitulation is signed. Everything will be sur- 
rendered at noon to-morrow,” said Du Breuil. 

Barrus became extremely red. Ideas flocked upon him 
with such violence that words, strangled, would not flow. 
Suddenly they burst forth in a stream: 

“To leave the fortifications of the town and the in- 
trenched camp intact is a crime. Science gives us all the 
means of destruction. By ruining the forts, the sluices, the 
fortifications, and the military buildings, we shall deprive 
the enemy of an almost impregnable point d’appui. They 
would find neither buildings for their garrisons nor maga- 
zines for their supplies. The town would have a few win- 
dows broken by the explosion, but it would gain by expand- 
ing, and by breathing freely outside the stone corset which 
stifles it. But go find patriotism and energy among all these 
Generals, ready for killing, who have been fattened by the 
Empire, who regret only one thing, their flesh-pots, and who 
sigh after their beds ! ” 

Carrouge shrugged his shoulders. Barrus’ exaltation in- 
creased. 

“ Yes, the Empire is the cause of everything. Rotten 
head and dead arms ! All this is just. France must atone ! ” 


390 


THE DISASTER. 


A dark flame shone in his eyes. Hard wrinkles barred his 
sectarian forehead. “ But the Republic is going to sweep 
away this filth. She carries in her pure hands justice and 
liberty.” He gave a sneer of rage. Ah, ah ! we have forti- 
fied Metz for the past two months. ... We have toiled and 
perspired well. . . .” His voice suddenly became calm. 
“ There is other work to be done. I’ve had enough of work- 
ing for the King of Prussia.” 

He left gesticulating. 

“ Queer chap ! ” growled Carrouge. “ As if politics had 
anything to do with the matter ! ” 

A convinced Imperialist, he retained within himself the 
belief in the past; the faults of the Empire remained hidden 
from him. On the previous day he still admitted that, faith- 
ful to its oath, the army, leaving Metz with arms and bag- 
gage, was going to contribute to a restoration; but, reduced 
to the abrupt horror of capitulation, he had now but one 
thought — to make a sortie, at all cost. 

They reached the gardens which at the left border the 
extremity of the Rue des Carmes. The Arsenal rose before 
them with its double zone of walls and water. As they were 
going to cross a narrow, small bridge, after passing through 
the first door, they saw some infantry officers who were com- 
ing towards them, speaking in a high tone of voice and 
greatly excited. Du Breuil recognised Yedel’s fine, downcast 
face among the group. 

“Is that you, Pierre?” cried the Captain, feverishly tak- 
ing hold of his hands. “ A terrible thing has happened to 
me ! ” 

He showed the copy of an order. He unfolded the paper 
with his clumsy fingers. Du Breuil read it at a glance. It 
was Bazaine’s last orders relative to the colours. He im- 
agined he could hear Massoli’s expressionless voice mutter- 
ing: “. . . and taken to the Metz Arsenal. You will inform 
the chief of the corps that they will be burnt there. . . .” 

“Well?” he asked. 

“Well,” said Vedel, “the waggon came into the camp at 
nightfall yesterday to take away the flag as though it were 
a shameful corpse. The idea that it would be burnt with the 
others consoled us a little. But this morning, when the 
troopers looked for ‘ their village steeple,’ there was such 
excitement that the Colonel at once sent me off to the Arsenal 


THE DISASTER. 


391 


to ascertain the incineration de visu. But . . . upon arriv- 
ing ” 

His voice was broken with anguish. Du Breuil then saw 
that his cousin’s eyes were red and swollen. He was deeply 
moved at this grief; he pressed the big moist hands in his 
own. Ah! the suspicions of the previous day! 

“ Upon arriving . . . the director of the Arsenal to whom 
I showed my order said to me : ‘ It is impossible. This is 
what I received one hour ago.’ And he made me read a 
letter from General Soleille ordering him to preserve the 
eagles. ‘ They must form part of the inventory drawn up 
by a commission of French and Prussian officers. . . .’ 
Then, suddenly, surprise and the idea of losing my flag in 
this way made me burst into tears. Colonel de Girels, seeing 
this, was as moved as myself. ‘ Take back your flag,’ he said 
to me, * in exchange for the receipt, and do what you like 
with it. . . .’ But, you understand, what is to be done? 
I don’t know. I haven’t an order. Then . . . then ... .1 
set off again. Ah! my poor Pierre, I am very unfortu- 
nate.” 

Two large tears rolled down his sunburnt cheeks. He 
looked at Du Breuil with all his distressed affection, as 
though he was asking for counsel, support. But, guessing 
that his powerlessness was equal to his own, he went away 
with an unsettled air. 

Carrouge, after a moment’s pause, burst out: 

“ Damn it, you’re right ! Ours have had a narrow es- 
cape ! ” 

^^Yes,” murmured Du Breuil; “that’s plain.” 

They now met other waggons. The funereal convoys 
succeeded each other, with their escorts of muddy non-com- 
missioned officers and lean “screws.” Du Breuil and Car- 
rouge, under the gray sky and in the fine rain, shivered with 
anger and shame as they passed. They skirted also long 
files of men who had been soldiers. Some were going to 
give up their arms ; others, who had abandoned them already, 
silently walked along with hands hung down. All appeared 
to be dismayed at the act which they were made to commit. 
At the Pont de Grilles, Carrouge, who had some business to 
see to at the Chambiere barracks, moved away. 

Du Breuil thought of the colours. The trick was played ! 
The day before yesterday, the 26th, after the council, public 
26 


392 


THE DISASTER. 


order to Soleille to collect and burn them; Soleille, as was 
right, did not hesitate. Yesterday, the 27th, after the report, 
fresh orders. First, the commanders of the corps will send 
their eagles to the Arsenal; second, the director will pre- 
serve them until the inventory is made out. But, as the last 
order would dismay the army, the first part alone is sent. 
The emotion, however, gradually increases. Then, in order 
to calm it, the last orders to the commanders of the corps — 
that the eagles be collected and burnt. But they omit to 
inform Soleille, and take care to inform the Arsenal, through 
Coffinieres, to limit itself to the receipt of the colours pure 
and simple. Besides, the colours must only be taken the next 
morning, at the hour at which Colonel de Girels will have 
received the order to preserve them, and place them in the 
inventory, at the hour at which the capitulation will be 
signed, and thus, out of respect for a given promise, making 
all destruction impossible. Finally, in case a few fanatics 
succeed in saving their flags, Bazaine is excused with the 
conqueror beforehand. 

The waters of the Moselle, swollen by recent storms, 
flowed in a muddy torrent. Du Breuil watched for a moment 
the little tumultuous waves. Sometimes they spread out into 
heavy sheets of water, then hollowed out in eddies. He called 
to mind the day upon which, bending over the green water, 
he had watched it fleeing towards Thionville, reaching free 
countries. . . . “ Where was it going ? ” he thought then. 
‘‘How would this finish? Would they ever leave this dia- 
bolical Metz ? ” He saw himself even then suffering in his 
friendship for D’Avol, in his love for Anine. He saw him- 
self again drawing the opal ring from his finger. It sparkled 
in the dying day like a reflection of beauty, youth, and 
pleasure. And the sweet face of Mme. de Gui'onic reap- 
peared. . . . Then the cracked jewel fell into the dark water. 

. . . Whither had the current taken it? . . . He felt himself 
to be also a dead thing, drifting, lost! 

One hour afterwards he found Judin again, at the Hotel 
du Hord. What was the good of returning to headquarters 
when there was nothing to do, as he was not on duty? He 
had better wait in Metz for he knew not what — the unknown 
of events, the possibility of a sortie. . . . 

They did not exchange twenty words at table. As they 
were rising Du Breuil, with hurried words, opened his heart. 


THE DISASTER. 


393 


He spoke of all the ignominies of the last few days, and, to 
crown all, the infamous comedy of the flags. The evening 
of Rezonville rose in his memory. He recollected the cold 
night, the bivouac lighted by a large Are, the flag lying upon 
its bed of arms. The earth around was strewn with corpses. 
Their souls reposed in its folds. To-morrow with the dawn 
it would shake its glorious tatter of silk; from the shroud 
with golden letters would spring towards the sun the flock 
of past victories. And now these emblems of the Fatherland 
were arranged in rows against an office wall, waiting in their 
black cases until a Prussian commissary, armed with a note- 
book, came to take them at the point of the pencil. 

Judin raised his head. 

“ I know some which will escape,” he said. “ By chance 
this morning I passed the house which Laveaucoupet occu- 
pies. Four waggons, containing the eagles of the garrison 
scattered in the forts, were standing before the door. The 
General, they said in a crowd, refused to send his flags to the 
Arsenal, ^ as an old horse is sent to the knacker’s ! ’ They 
were going to burn them in the courtyard of the house in 
the presence of the staff and the escorts. . . . But almost 
immediately the waggons went back along the roads to the 
forts, and the order given by the General spread among 
the groups: ‘Take the flags from the hearse, in which they 
are enclosed, before the regiments! Let the last honours 
be rendered them, and then let them be burnt ! ’ ” 

At these words a tall officer, with a long nose and long 
moustache, who entered the dining-room with a portfolio 
under his arm, passed them. 

“ Is that you, Laisne ? ” exclaimed Du Breuil. 

“ Yes, returned from the Ban Saint-Martin. You were 
speaking of the colours, eh I ” And in a proud tone, as 
though the heroism of one rebounded upon all, he said: 
“ The 2nd corps has done its duty ! Read this.” 

He proudly held out a letter written by Lapasset to Gen- 
eral Frossard. Du Breuil read: 

“ General : The mixed brigade gives up its colours to 
nobody, and the sad mission of burning them rests with 
nobody. It has itself carried out this mission this morning, 
and I have the official report of this lugubrious operation in 
my possession.” 


394 


THE DISASTER. 


When Laisne had gone, Du Breuil said to Judin: 

That is splendid ! . . . Such are the chiefs we ought to 
have had ! ” 

They found a great stir in the courtyard, and in the 
office at the Engineers’ barracks. More than three hun- 
dred officers had assembled. Extreme excitement reigned. 
It was a continued hum of voices, traversed by shouts and 
cries. “Time presses! Where is General Clinchant? 
Our mitrailleuses are at the Arsenal! They are disarm- 
ing the 4th corps! They are taking the last guns to the 
magazines ! ” 

The most excited struggled and floundered among the 
groups. 

“ They told us there was a General ? Where is he ? Let 
him come forward ! ” 

And in the midst of the growing tumult there were still 
the disputes and recriminations, the puerile disturbance of 
the previous day. Complaints without an object, threats of 
death sprang from all mouths. Some gave vent to their am- 
bitious intrigues. This spectacle sickened Du Breuil. There 
was a movement of keen curiosity. Colonel Boissonnet was 
withdrawing. 

“ Hullo, Charlys ! ” cried J udin. 

Behind the Colonel appeared D’Avol, Carrouge, De 
Serres, and Thomas, who retained him. 

“Ho, D’Avol! I shall go also,” Charlys was saying. He 
saw Du Breuil, and made a sign to him. “ And you, friend ? 
Are you going to remain ? There is nothing to be done here. 
I renounce.” 

D’Avol cast upon them a scornful look, and in a hard 
voice which was meant for Du Breuil, although he had pre- 
tended not to see him, he said: 

“ Rest easy. Colonel. You won’t be the only one.” 

“ I only admit of a sortie in a body,” continued Charlys. 
Sadness passed over his bony face. “ Lacking a leader, I see 
that it is impossible. All other attempts are seditious. I 
have no right to give orders. I withdraw.” 

“Joy to you! ” cried D’Avol. Charlys was already some 
distance away. “7 shall get out of this trap, cost what it 
may! For one must have a solid stomach,” he added, turn- 
ing towards Du Breuil with eyes full of disdain and hatred, 
“ to remain here.” 


THE DISASTER. 


395 


“ What do you say ? ” exclaimed Du Breuil dryly, ad- 
vancing a step. 

“ I say,” continued D’Avol in a cutting voice, “ that to 
recognise capitulation is to confess one’s self responsible 
with Bazaine. Let him participate who wishes his infamy. 
I don’t eat of that bread ! ” 

There was a short silence. Judin with his uninjured 
hand sought that of Du Breuil, who, white with rage, was 
looking at D’Avol with compressed lips. 

D’Avol continued: 

“ Let all brave men imitate me, and to-morrow, on French 
territory, the army will be able to say : ‘ Nothing is lost, 
honour is saved ! ’ ” 

“ Leave me, Maxime,” said Du Breuil with the calm of a 
man who has just come to a definite decision. Turning 
towards D’Avol he said: 

“ It is because the army is made up of brave men that 
it will not imitate you! Have no care for its honour; it is 
above your judgment! But you are free to take to flight, 
and to-morrow, on French territory, you will be able to say: 
‘ All is lost, pride is saved ! ’ ” 

“ The treason of a chief releases the soldier,” exclaimed 
D’Avol, shrugging his shoulders. “ Leaders are only to 
fight.” 

“ It remains for comrades to suffer.” 

“ Mere words ! The ship is sinking. Everybody for him- 
self.” 

That is the excuse of the coward who deserts ! ” 
D’Avol started under the insult. 

“ Which of the two is a coward — ^he who risks his life 
or he who ” 

“ Does his duty,” cut in Du Breuil. 

“ Ah ! ah ! ” jeered D’Avol with insulting raillery. . . . 

His duty ! . . . Do you know what your duty is ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Du Breuil, who was with difficulty control- 
ling himself. “ Duty in such misfortune is to do that which 
costs the most.” 

D’Avol smiled outrageously. 

^‘Really? Prudence requires an effort? I should have 
bet on bravery. ...” 

You lie ! ” cried Du Breuil. 

The word cracked like a box on the ears. D’Avol saw 


396 


THE DISASTER. 


red and rushed forward. But Judin, Carrouge, and others 
interposed. Captain de Serres and Lieutenant Thomas 
dragged away their Major, who, furious, turned his head at 
each step, still uttering insults. 

The emotion caused by this short scene was lost in the 
general tumult. Excitement was at its height. Some pro- 
posed to burn the Arsenal and to get back the flags, others 
to shoot Bazaine. The Captain of Carabineers cried, in a 
paroxysm of rage: 

“ The rappel ! The tocsin ! To arms ! to arms ! . . .” 

Carrouge and Major Leperche made a suggestion that 
the “ most resolute meet at nine o’clock at night on the Sarre- 
briick road to try to make a sortie.” 

“ Let’s go,” said Du Breuil to Judin. 

He experienced a feeling of disgust, an inexpressible 
bitterness. He had hastened to leave this place of sterile 
agitation. The words uttered by D’Avol pierced him like so 
many wounds; those which he had not pronounced enven- 
omed them the more. The thought of Anine rose up be- 
tween them like a forest of swords. They were separated by 
icy steppes, burning deserts, a whole world. To think that 
two months ago they were two friends, two brothers ! Why, 
how had they come to this? Du Breuil did not succeed in 
explaining it. The open wound bled the more. In his sor- 
row he felt a bitter voluptuousness, a frenzy of aversion so 
keen that it became intoxicating. His hatred was possessed 
of the violence of love. 

Their attention was attracted in the street by an unusual 
tumult. Workmen, citizens, and women were running in 
the direction of the Place d’Armes, whence confused noises 
arose. Men seized old rifles, swords, and pikes. When cross- 
ing the Place Saint-Louis they saw some madmen tearing 
up Cofiinieres’ last proclamation with cries of ‘‘ Death ! ” 

“ Have you read it? ” asked Judin. 

Upon receiving a sign in the negative, he quoted some 
of its essential features: 

“^Metz succumbs with honour! . . . Never in military 
history had a fortified town held out until so complete an 
exhaustion of its resources. . . . Four or five days of resist- 
ance would, besides, only result in an aggravation of the 
inhabitants’ situation, etc.’ Yes, dust in one’s eyes ! ” con- 
tinued Judin. “ The only powder these gentlemen use. I 


THE DISASTER. 


397 


blushed with shame yesterday upon reading it, for the 
markets are overflowing: there are thousands of horses to 
eat, wine, coflee, brandy, powder, shells, cartridges; a hun- 
dred thousand men ready to die, and they dare to do 
this! . . 

Two men passed them. 

“ Is that you I ” cried Du Breuil, recognising Bersheim 
and old Krudger. 

“Yes,” said Bersheim; “we are going to the Engineers’ 
barracks. It appears there are a few brave men there re- 
solved for anything.” 

Du Breuil shook his head sadly. 

“ Resolved for nothing ! All is over.” 

Judin questioned Krudger. The mob was in a state of 
agitation on the Place d’Armes. A crowd of citizens had in- 
vaded the Divisionary Hotel, heaping reproaches and insults 
upon Coffinieres. And the old Lorraine man always returned 
to the same subject: Metz protected by her forts, her ram- 
parts bristling with cannon; Metz defended by her garrison 
of twenty-nine thousand men and its manly population; 
Metz impregnable and a virgin was going to open her gates, 
capitulate without a breach and without assault! . . . 

“ And this,” he concluded, casting a look of hatred to- 
wards Du Breuil, “ in view of the powerless eyes of the brav- 
est army, the cause and the witness of our shame ! ” 

“ Provisions are lacking,” affirmed Bersheim categori- 
cally. 

Judin and Krudger cried that they could hold out for 
several days yet. The Metz citizen, whose white beard trem- 
bled, ironically apostrophized Du Breuil: 

“Are not the military regulations formal. Major? ‘On 
the surrender of a fort, advanced or retarded by a single day, 
may depend the salvation of the country ?...’” 

He trembled with exasperation. Du Breuil sympathized 
with him in a look. As they advanced, he read stupor de- 
picted upon people’s faces. Tradesmen were talking before 
their half-open shops. Women formed groups, talking in 
low tones ; some were weeping. 

“ I tell you, Krudger,” said Bersheim, “ that provisions 
are lacking. We are eating the last morsel of bread. My 
friend Bouchotte, who mills for the whole town, told me 
yesterday that his bushels were empty. He could only And 


398 


THE DISASTER. 


three sacks of wheat for sale — one of the 1851 harvest, and 
the two others of that of 1852 ! And you won’t suspect Bou- 
chotte after his fine action of to-day. He has just refused 
the Cross,” he added to Du Breuil. “ Yes, never would he 
have seen the ink upon his brevet without sorrow — the ink 
which was used, perhaps, to draw up the capitulation. Those 
were his very words.” 

“ And I assure you,” said Krudger, “ that there are re- 
sources in hiding ! ” 

The discussion was becoming bitter. They bitterly re- 
proached each other for their difference of opinion. They 
exhausted themselves in trying to find an outlet. The pro- 
jects of the one seemed absurd to the other. 

“ The Municipal Council,” said Bersheim, “ has allowed 
itself to be flouted like a child.” 

Krudger became violently angry at these words, which 
concerned his son. So the two Metz citizens wasted their 
strength in fruitless rage and sterile desolation. 

The growing uproar mingled into a single shout. They 
reached the Place d’Armes, which was covered with people, 
a mass of gesticulating groups and furious men running in 
bodies. Some rushed towards the Rue de la Princerie, where 
Coffinieres resided; others waved flags. The length of the 
cathedral some Kational Guards succeeded in disarming a 
company which was carrying its rifles to the Arsenal. The 
soldiers quietly made no resistance. Some fanatics were 
brandishing chassepots and distributing cartridges, which 
had been stolen from the military stations. Here and there 
shots were fired. Du Breuil recognised in the midst of a 
group the editor of a Metz newspaper, who, astride a large 
horse, was vociferating the “ Marseillaise,” at the same time 
firing his pistol in the air. A tall, beautiful woman, dressed 
like a Goddess of Liberty, was holding the horse’s bridle. 
Suddenly the eternal Captain of Carabineers, bare-breasted, 
haggard, arose before them. 

“Forward, friends!” he howled. “Follow me! I stake 
my head, but I don’t care a damn ! ” 

A formidable pushing near the cathedral made a diver- 
sion. The doors gave way, and the crowd invaded the towers. 
A handful of strong men hung themselves on to the Mutte, 
and over the Place d’Armes in delirium, over Metz and over 
the army, the enormous bell of days of mourning sent out. 


THE DISASTER. 


399 . 


even to the enemy’s camps, its funereal groans, in reply to 
which there came from church to church the sobbing appeal 
of tocsins. 

“ Georges ! ” cried M. Krudger. 

He had just caught sight of his son. The long-bodied 
municipal councillor, with a rough, open face, was ha- 
ranguing the crowd. 

Ah, father ! ” he uttered, pointing out the invaded di- 
visionary residence, if you had heard Coffinieres stammer- 
ing in the midst of all these brave men mad with rage and 
sorrow ! He replied with vague words, called for respect due 
to his duties. How he must now regret the false position he 
has been in, suffer in his soldier’s heart for having seen 
clearly too late ! ” 

Cheers and cries interrupted his speech. A Hational 
Guard, the tricolour flag in his hand, was proclaiming the 
Republic before Fabert’s statue, draped in crape. Above the 
tumult of the town the Mutte sent forth its lamentations. 
Ringing a full peal, the Lorraine bell exhaled its fury min- 
gled with complaints. It was the very voice of the ancient 
city. In the vibrations of the bronze passed the harsh cries 
of inviolate Metz, the malediction of mothers, the death- 
rattle of wounded men, and the sigh of the dead. Du Breuil 
fled, pursued by the terrible resonance, the obsession of this 
knell, which tormented his heart. 


CHAPTER IV. 

At the Ban Saint-Martin everything spoke of the flnal 
agony. The impedimenta of the headquarters staff lay piled 
in the mud. Long flies of artillery, and commissariat wag- 
gons and vehicles belonging to other sections, invaded the 
old parade ground. One saw nothing but teams wandering 
aimlessly, or dying where they stood — a jumble of trappings 
and dirt. The offices of the general staff were almost empty. 
Around Laune, a few faithful officers — Fay, Samuel, Res- 
taud, and Decherac — attended to their last duties. It was 
necessary to make a little order in the unspeakable confusion. 


400 


THE DISASTER. 


Officer by officer, the chief headquarters staff had, since the 
previous day, dissolved and become disintegrated. Just as 
Du Breuil was going to open the door, the clatter of hoofs 
resounded. Floppe dismounted. 

Well, Floppe, what news?” 

A grin passed over his rugged face. There was nothing 
good to speak of. They were surrendering their arms, care- 
fully cleaned, so that the Prussians should be able to use 
them as soon as possible. Rumours were circulating in the 
camps with the objects of allaying the soldiers’ wrath: they 
were to be allowed to return home; only the officers would 
be made prisoners. Or else: the enemy would treat our 
forces with rigour if the arms were not surrendered in good 
condition. Or, again: that after their captivity, which was 
to be short, the regiments would return to Metz, and be given 
back their rifles and guns. . . . Floppe added : 

I met a good many troops on my way to Moulins, where 
I went with the officer in charge of the parleying party.” 

Du Breuil looked at him questioningly. 

“Why, don’t you know?” said Floppe. “We had a bad 
fright while you were away. At noon came an insolent 
letter from Stiehle to Jarras, declaring that he could have 
no faith in the assurances of the previous day. It was such 
a habit to destroy insignia at each revolution ! Consequently, 
he demanded to know the exact number of the eagles, threat- 
ening in so many words to consider the treaty null and void 
in case there was a deflciency. You ought to have seen the 
panic! They ran for Soleille, and drew up a nice letter, 
promising to be good, and to deliver all the forty-one re- 
maining colours. Then Soleille trotted off to the Arsenal 
to count them again, and Girels was admonished not to let 
one escape.” 

Du Breuil moved to enter without answering. 

“ J ust listen ! ” said Floppe. “ Here’s the finest bit. 
When Hugues saw Jarras this morning, he reported to him 
about yesterday’s orders — that great joke, you know, about 
burning. . . . The chief, vastly worried because of his signa- 
ture and its attendant responsibility, posted off at once to 
the Marshal, and, with the help of Stiehle’s letter, came back 
with a fresh order. Galling enough it was, too! Restaud, 
who carried it out while I was there, found the pill bitter.” 

“ Restaud ? ” exclaimed Du Breuil. 


THE DISASTER. 


401 


And Floppe nodded, adding: 

“ Poor chap ! What a look ! ” 

They entered together. Eight or ten officers were writ- 
ing, grouped in a corner of the room. Restaud remained 
aloof, brooding, with the look of a wounded animal. The 
hand he stretched out in response to Du Breuil’s greeting 
drew back. 

Floppe turned towards Du Breuil. 

“ F ancy, J arras made him tear out of the order-book the 
page on which the order to burn the colours was entered ! It 
happened to be in the middle of a page, so he took the sheet 
out, and a secretary copied on to the next page what writing 
there remained. . . . That’s how the trick was done! Clean 
record, you see, in case our books fall into the hands of 
Frederick Charles!” 

Restaud looked up at Du Breuil with an expression of the 
deepest distress. What he must have suffered in destroying 
the page! what horrible torture for this conscientious man, 
this pure, unswerving heart ! Du Breuil was shaken with the 
pity of it. Poor fellow! . . . Revolting with all his soul 
against such fraud, his native honesty rising up against it, 
yet simply obeying without a word. He could picture the 
shivering movement of the hand. Assuredly, Restaud must 
have found upon that occasion his bitterest trial, felt the 
horrors of the worst torture. His face spoke of it. Unseen 
tears had left their deep marks. 

The door opened, and Charlys entered. Fatigue bent his 
slender shoulders and long legs. His prominent cheekbones 
burned with fever. 

“ Still at work ? ” was his remark to Laune. 

He sat down. 

“ The Generals bade farewell to their officers. It was not 
all smooth sailing, so they say. . . . Regular chorus of re- 
bukes and reproaches.” 

He shook his head and looked at Laune. “ I thought that 
Jarras had put the key under the door?” 

The archives are in safety,” replied Laune. The Gen- 
eral had them taken yesterday to Saint Clement’s school.” 

Ah, yes ! ” jeered Charlys ; “ his precious account 
books ! ” 

Floppe smiled maliciously. The coolness between Char- 
lys and Jarras, a counterpart of that between the chief of 


402 


THE DISASTER. 


the general staff and Bazaine, was one of his stock subjects 
of mirth. 

“You will see,” he said; “they alone are not going to 
lay down their arms.” 

Charlys began a story. The name of Clinchant made 
everyone look up. 

“ Leboeuf summoned him for a lecturing,” Charlys nar- 
rated in his tired voice, “ and Changarnier was there to re- 
ceive him. Clinchant stuck to his guns, declaring himself 
in favour of attempting a sortie. But Changarnier snubbed 
him most unmercifully, and, at last, losing all patience, 
pushed him right up to the open door leading into the 
orderly-room. At the same time, he shouted, ‘ I don’t like 
insubordination, do you hear. General? I would rather see 
the army perish than save itself at the cost of discipline!’” 

All the officers had laid down their pens, listening atten- 
tively. Du Breuil saw a strange look pass over Restaud’s 
face at the last words. Charlys went on: 

“ Exhausted by this effort, Changarnier thereupon threw 
himself into Clinchant’s arms; then fell helplessly on to a 
sofa, and, before all the Aides-de-camp, this old hero burst 
into tears. In his breast the citizen is as strong as the 
soldier.” 

In the silence which followed no one noticed the entrance 
of Major Mourgues. He handed Laune the minute of an 
order, and, without saying a word, made off. Having read 
the paper, Laune offered it to Charlys with an incisive ges- 
ture; then in a dry voice he said: 

“ How, gentlemen ! A last effort ! ” 

Du Breuil sat down beside the others, and with a sput- 
tering pen, which he felt like crushing through the paper at 
the end of each line, he wrote, with throbbing temples and 
flushed brow, the general order in which Bazaine, comparing 
himself with Massena, Kleber, and Gouvion Saint-Cyr, had 
the audacity to boast of having gloriously accomplished his 
duty to the uttermost human limits, and, to extort resigna- 
tion from the troops, lied without end, promising them, as 
soon as peace had been signed, that Metz and their arms and 
baggage would be restored to them. 

The silent reproof aroused by this tissue of hollow, slip- 
pery phrases, his fury and indignant resignation, were still 
in Du Breuil’s mind when he reached his cold room. Frisch 


THE DISASTER. 


403 


had not been able to make up his mind to light a fire. Mme. 
Guimbail was doubtless asleep, her light being out. The rem- 
nant of a candle cast a sad light on the walls. On the other 
side of the partition he could hear Restaud moving now and 
then. Several times Du Breuil had called him, tapping 
gently at his door. In vain. Absorbed, no doubt, in his 
grief, Restaud obstinately kept silence. This idea of his 
friend avoiding him to suffer undisturbed heightened his 
wretchedness. It seemed as if this lonely evening, the last 
he would spend under that roof, was an epitome of all those 
preceding it, resuming and multiplying their sadness and 
their solitude to dizzy proportions. The blackened, rain- 
bespattered panes did not intercept the darkness. He sur- 
veyed the narrow room, the bare walls, the untidy table 
whereon the candle-end threw its fitful light upon the still 
open volume of Napoleon’s “ Memoires.” Over the mantel- 
piece the inexorable calendar marked the day. Two black 
figures showed the date — October 28. He went closer and 
read the ephemerides: October 28, 1806, Prise de Berlin! 
The irony of history, like a whip-lash, cut him to the heart. 
Turning to the window he felt the loneliness of the empty 
house and the icy autumn night. The tocsin of the Mutte 
was sending forth its warning of riot and of burial, ringing, 
ringing, ringing. Like the shiver of immense draperies of 
woe every clang of the bronze vibrated with a groan in the 
darkness. The image of the sleeping city rose before him, 
coupled with the dolorous slumbers of Anine. He longed to 
figure in her dreams. The bell persisted in its far-reaching 
summons. He was thinking now of the grandsons of those 
who took Berlin; of the disbanded army, a troop of phan- 
toms. He saw once more the slough of the camping grounds, 
thousands of men snoring under the tents clad in tatters, 
lying in the rain and mud. Betwixt nightmares they were 
doubtless smiling at the thought of peaceful barrack-rooms 
in Germany, the promised shelter, the warm coverlet, and 
steaming rations! The behaviour of their chiefs gave them 
good excuse. . . . The clamour from the Mutte suddenly 
ceased. 

It was broad daylight when Du Breuil awoke, un- 
rested. 

“Captain Restaud has already gone,” Frisch told him 
while stropping his razor and preparing the basin for his 


404 


THE DISASTER. 


shave. “ He said he was going to the office to .finish the 
work.” 

Du Breuil unconsciously followed along the customary 
road. Everything seemed different. Houses and trees wore 
an unfamiliar, deserted look under the sombre sky. He 
looked towards Saint- Quentin enveloped in mist, the clouds 
hanging low. . . . The imminence of departure estranged 
him from outside things. 

In front of the Marshal’s residence, the empty bivouac 
of the two escort troops made the square look vaster. Chas- 
seurs and hussars had just rejoined their regiments. Only 
a company of Grenadiers of the Guard, who had been on 
permanent duty for a month past, remained lined up against 
the garden-walls, standing at ease. Orderlies were holding 
chargers harnessed for the march. Officers belonging to the 
Marshal’s personal headquarters staff came and went, giv- 
ing their last orders. Baggage-waggons were lined up, ready 
to start. As Du Breuil was going away. Major Mourgues 
caught sight of him, and running up, came to bid him adieu. 
His joy was ill-concealed. A brand-new ribbon, topped with 
a large rosette, glittered on his tunic. Du Breuil pretended 
not to see it, replying dryly: 

“ Bon voyage ! ” 

Mourgues was not to be shaken off: 

“You are looking at my cross? ... I got the officer’s 
ribbon only yesterday.” 

“ Oh ! ” was all Du Breuil’s reply. 

Mourgues went on: 

“Yes. Why don’t you ask for something? His Excel- 
lency will sign what you like!” (Du Breuil made a wry 
face.) “You are too particular! It is right enough to ac- 
cept a distinction when you have deserved it! Bigger men 
than yourself have not turned up their noses. . . .” (He 
smiled insinuatingly.) “ What do you suppose we are wait- 
ing for now? . . . Nothing more,” he continued after a 
slight pause, “ than to give the Marshal time to finish dis- 
tributing badges and commissions. He is besieged this 
morning ! ” 

There was a commotion. Mourgues ran to his charger. 
The steps of the interior entrance were crowded with officers, 
personal friends, or self-seekers. The Marshal appeared. He 
walked heavily and, beneath a placid look, his face was 


THE DISASTER. 


405 


bloated and worried. Du Breuil saw him mount. A file was 
detached from the company on duty, and marched ahead. 
Then, flanked by a double row of Grenadiers, Bazaine, fol- 
lowed by his general staff, silently passed out of the gate. 
The rest of the soldiers and the baggage-waggons moved off. 
Du Breuil saw them turn the corner of the street and dis- 
appear in the gloomy daylight. 

At headquarters he found the faithful few of the preced- 
ing day around Laune and Fay. Bestaud looked up. His 
eyes were calm, and his face austere, but peaceful. He 
seemed reconciled; cheerful again in his serious fashion, 
almost sprightly. He was working with his usual ardour. 
His bearing made Du BreuiTs spirits rise a little, sickened 
though he was at Bazaine’s shameful departure. He had felt 
strangely before this Marshal of France hurrying towards 
the enemy’s lines like an escaping criminal. Floppe, who 
had seen him pass, cried out: 

“ What a hurry he must be in to give himself up ! He 
sent word to Frederick Charles yesterday to know at what 
hour he could proceed to Corny! And he has not waited 
for a reply.” 

“Mo doubt,” exclaimed Decherac, “ he is afraid to face 
the sight of the army I ” 

“ Ugh 1 ” said Floppe, “ I am only surprised that he didn’t 
leave sooner. Yesterday evening, when he asked for the pass- 
word, which they had forgotten to send him, I thought he 
was going to scuttle at daybreak.” 

Du Breuil wanted to know more. It seemed that the out- 
posts had remained under arms to prevent any escape by 
night. Bazaine would want the password if he had wished 
to cross the lines at sunrise. 

“ That’s true,” said Floppe. “ You were not here, then, 
yesterday, so you couldn’t know! . . . Imagine our surprise 
when going over the list of passwords to find those selected 
for the 28th were: ‘ Dumouriez,’ ^ Dijon.’ . . . Yes, Du- 
mouriez! ... So that the very moment our Commander-in- 
Chief deserts us, when the sentinel challenges him, Bazaine 
will have to reply by giving him the name of a traitor ! ” 

“ The irony of fate ! ” said Du Breuil bitterly, and he 
thought of the calendar. 

Changing the subject, Floppe growled: 

“ I have just met Lieutenant-Colonel Gex ! ” 


406 


THE DISASTER. 


Some exclamations of surprise were heard. Floppe con- 
tinued pleasantly : 

Quite so. He is one of the deathbed promotions ! . . . 
It’s incredible what a batch there has been of them the last 
few days. The throng at the Marshal’s never diminished. 
Those who had been his bitterest accusers rubbed shoulders 
with the worst time-servers in his ante-chamber. A score of 
ribbons gratuitously given for one that was deserved. 
Shoulder-knots, crosses, stars. . . . The regular blanks hav- 
ing been exhausted, Bazaine took to signing sheets of white 
paper. It seems that the Government official attached to his 
household for this work pointed out the irregularity of such 
procedure. Bazaine replied : ‘ What does that matter if it 
pleases them? You know quite well that all these things 
will not be confirmed.’ ” 

There was an awkward silence. Du Breuil thought of 
Mourgues. 

“ Do you know,” resumed Decherac, “ what was one of 
the reasons why our ex-chiefs accepted the rigorous clauses 
of the treaty? I was yesterday in the Marshal’s orderly- 
room, when a sterling fellow, one of the Guards’ commis- 
sariat chiefs, and a friend of Bazaine, rushed in trembling 
with indignation, with a copy of the general order in his 
hand. * Where is the Marshal?’ he cried. ‘His Excellency 
does not receive.’ ‘ But you know me well ; I am always 
admitted ! ’ ‘ The Marshal will see no one.’ Then, while he 
proceeded to vent his indignation, a voice rose in disclaimer : 
‘ We had, after all, to save our baggage.’ ” 

Decherac went on to tell of the failure of yesterday’s 
sortie along the Sarrebriick road — the last attempt to pierce 
the enemy’s lines. Scarcely sixty took part in it. Their 
plans were denounced by a report from General de Cissey, 
and only a few managed to escape. At the present moment 
the Guards as well as the troops at the outposts were giving 
up their chassepots. The Marshal had allowed them to keep 
their rifles till now to assure the maintenance of order. Only 
yesterday three battalions of Voltigeurs had been sent into 
Metz to check rioting. 

A gallop was heard outside. Captain Yung, who had 
that morning taken charge for the last time of the parleying 
service at Moulins-les-Metz, was the arrival. He dismounted 
hurriedly, and entered the room, holding several letters. 


THE DISASTER. 


407 


Is General J arras still here ? ” he asked. 

Laune pointed with his finger to the first floor, where the 
chief of the general staff had shut himself up since the sign- 
ing of the capitulation. 

“Oh! oh!” ejaculated Floppe. “That means news.” 

When Captain Yung came down all surrounded him. He 
told his story in hurried words : 

“ I had been at Moulins about half an hour. The bugle 
signalled an approach. An officer of Prussian dragoons 
comes up and hands me a despatch in a large square envelope, 
and some letters for Jarras. ^ Please make haste. Captain,’ 
he said. ‘ Go as quickly as possible.’ He even repeated, 
while I was mounting : ‘ Eilen 8ieJ I came back at a gallop. 
Abreast of Longueville I met the Marshal. He asked me if 
I had any letters. I handed him the large envelope. He 
seemed much taken aback and disheartened. He unfolded 
the despatch. It was in German. ‘ Can you translate it ? ’ 
‘he asked. And, remaining in my saddle, I read aloud. . . . 
Five paragraphs, signed by Stiehle. It began this way: 
‘ His Highness shares his satisfaction with you at the man- 
ner in which instructions have been carried out for surren- 
dering the arms, materials of war, and colours of the army of 
Metz. As regards your desire to be at headquarters before 
noon, in accordance with agreement. His Highness regrets 
his inability to accede to it, and hopes to be able to receive 
you this evening at five o’clock, or to-morrow morning at ten. 
He will send you further orders.’ ” 

“ What a smack ! ” said Floppe. 

“ And it ended up,” proceeded the Captain, “ with direc- 
tions for the residence of Prince Murat and of Jarras. As 
for Changarnier, he is free. . . . The Marshal was evidently 
much affected. ^ What is to be done ? ’ he said to me. I 
advised him to wait at the outpost for fresh orders from 
Frederick Charles.” 

Yung having left, Decherac and Floppe disappeared, one 
after the other. 

Du Breuil came over to shake hands with Restaud. 

“ Are you coming ? ” he said. “ This place stifles me.” 

In the silent office the faithful few gathered round Laune 
were making it a point of honour to complete their tasks, 
putting all in order. 

“ Ho,” said Restaud, “ not till mid-day. The chief head- 
27 


408 


THE DISASTER; 


quarters staff will cease to exist at the same time as the 
army.” 

They looked at each other fixedly. Du Breuil murmured, 

“ You are a plucky fellow, no mistake! ” and went out. 

Bain was streaming. It enveloped him in eddying tor- 
rents, while through the obliqueness of the downpour floated 
a whirling mist. Trees and houses became indistinct like a 
landscape in dreams, only stranger and more deserted. The 
Ban Saint-Martin stretched out in slimy expanse, strewn 
with a chaos of vehicles. There they were by the hundred, 
waggons of all sorts, smithies, ambulances, canteens, forage, 
and amongst them wandered the last remaining horses. This 
was only a small part of the material being abandoned. Du 
Breuil thought of all the squares and cross-roads where 
enormous masses of impedimenta were stacked. 

He took the road. When approaching the Porte de 
France, he came across long bodies of men making their way 
through the mist. Hearer, he recognised the uniform of ther 
Grenadiers of the Guard. They were marching nearly in 
line, still with their knapsacks, and almost in step. The 
veteran was too strong in them. Although orders were want- 
ing, and discipline had been slackened, the soldiering in- 
stinct compelled them to march steadily with the old proud 
bearing. Out of esprit de corps and respect for themselves, ' 
they had carefully burnished their accoutrements that morn- 
ing. Their gaiters and straps were pipeclayed, and their 
eagled buttons shone. All the range of expressions between 
irony and furious anger distorted their faces. Some looked 
tense and rigid, as if petrified by despair. It was heartrend- 
ing to see such an end for troops full of the vigour of life, 
the flower of the army, thus allowed to wither aimlessly. . . . 
Du Breuil thought of the battalions at Saint-Privat, and 
their enforced inaction within a few steps of the firing line. 
What a crime to neglect using such men! And now they 
were going away, lost forces, into the final dissolution. He 
pictured the country laid waste, this simultaneous exodus, 
the sad tramp of the troops. They were even then falling in 
for the last time, and from every direction, under the rain, 
in the mud, the stricken columns were dragging their weary 
way, like the dismembered seTctions of a gigantic serpent. 

The Voltigeurs were now advancing, recognisable by the 
yellow-green of their facings and braid. They followed on 


THE DISASTER. 


409 


the steps of the Grenadiers towards the city glacis, in the 
direction of the Nancy road. In several regiments, the 
officers of the week had been alone told off to accompany the 
troops to the place of surrender. But almost in every case, 
from the youngest subaltern to the Colonel, everyone had 
felt himself in honour bound to escort his men. Among the 
Voltigeurs every officer was present, marching in order of 
battle, the Generals in the van. Bank was lost sight of. 
All hearts beat in unison. There were no longer chiefs and 
subordinates, only one vast household of sufferers, bound 
together by one common tie of grief. Du Breuil caught 
sight of Boisjol. He looked like a wolf with blood-stained 
muzzle. A splinter from a shell had cut into his upper lip. 
The old African fighter went by, carrying his head thrown 
back, his eyes glistening. 

The infantry Chasseurs and Zouaves came next. The 
small jacket, baggy Arab trousers and chechia made one 
think of battle-fields scorched by the African sun, of the 
far-off skies of Italy and the Crimea. 

Saddest of all was the unwonted silence which hung over 
this army on the march. Braying bugle and beating drum, 
all were in the hands of the victor, and mourning was blacker 
for their muteness. Suddenly, as the last battalion defiled, 
the column came to a halt. Du Breuil was going to take this 
opportunity for crossing, when up lumbered one of the Chas- 
seurs’ canteens, drawn by two sorry “ screws.” It came along 
with difficulty, keeping the right side of the road. The 
Zouaves made way. Du Breuil looked pityingly at the miser- 
able waggon, all shattered and encrusted with dirt, and its 
spectral team. All at once he shivered as if struck to the 
heart. 

A hoarse voice, sounding old, sarcastic, and desperate, 
cried : 

We are sold! ” 

Oh, how true that cry was now! It seemed to him that 
it burst from a thousand tongues, extending far on the lips 
of each Zouave. “We are sold! we are sold!” thought 
every man. In the empty vehicle which brushed past him, 
Du Breuil recognised Forbach’s memorable parrot perched 
on a case of brandy. How had he drifted there? Bristling 
with rage, the bird flapped its wings, and in an strident 
scream repeated : 


410 


THE DISASTER. 


‘‘ We are sold!” 

Du Breuil remembered the day when this strange prophet 
of evil had uttered his first warnings. It was while leaving 
Mdlle. Sorbet’s house, after a visit to Judin. Vedel was 
with him. . . . How indignantly they had repudiated such 
a fowl slander, such blasphemy I But now the ignoble brute 
was right. Du Breuil felt humiliated and irritable. He 
looked at the parrot hatefully. The bird seeing itself no- 
ticed, blinked its eyes mockingly under their horny lids. 
He raised in turn each of his scaly, thick- jointed claws, 
sharpened his beak on the side of the case, then, with sudden 
earnestness, called out: 

“ To Berlin ! to Berlin 1 ” 

Laughter arose — laughter in which sobbed all the illu- 
sions of the past. Every man felt that this parody of human 
speech, solemn in its oddity, re-echoed his own accents. 
With cruel preciseness, the portrait developed out of the 
caricature. Some rowdies shouted in tones whose gaiety 
was painful : 

“ Passengers for Berlin, please take your seats ! Pas- 
sengers for the Rhine, hurry up ! ” 

Excited by the noise, the parrot began humming jumbled 
songs, snatches of tunes that tailed on ludicrously, ending in 
hoarse gurgles. Then he softened his voice, and asked, in 
mincing, old maid’s accents : “ Have you had a good break- 
fast, J acky ? ” continuing without a break, in sonorous 
growls : Shoulder-r-r ar-rms ! Pr-resent ar-rms ! Vive 

Bazaine! Rub-a-dub, dub, dub. . . .” 

Murmuring arose, and groans. At the grotesque com- 
mand, some of the bronzed Zouave faces became pale. . . . 
Their arms? They were far away! . . . 

“ Silence, Bazaine ! ” muttered an old corporal covered 
with medals. And the bird, intoxicated by its noise, only 
put on extra energy : 

“ Shoulder-r ar-rms ! . . . Pr-resent ar-rms ! ” 

In vain the canteen driver tried to quiet it. The ironical 
voice continued without cessation: 

“ R-rub-a-dub, r-rub-a-dub, dub ! Shoulder-r ar-rms ! . . 
Pr-resent ar-rms ! ” 

All together, the disarmed soldiers yelled furiously : 
“ Make him shut up ! Kill him ! Stop, or I’ll strangle you ! ” 

A veteran, in a hurry to carry out his threat, made a 


THE DISASTER. 


411 


bound on to the vehicle. Instinctively the crazy bird jumped 
off, landing on the horses, ffapping his wings. A broken wag- 
gon sticking out of the ditch attracted him. The parrot 
alighted on it, and, realizing his danger, proceeded to sing 
all the more lustily, out of sheer bravado. His whole reper- 
tory burst out afresh, in confused remembrance. He trilled 
it like a string of ghastly beads, in which the voices of his 
different owners came out in ridiculous, pitiful juxtaposition. 
Despite the outstretched hands and rush of angry Zouaves, 
he warbled blindly on: 

“ Have you seen the moon, my love ? . . . Scr-ratch ! 
scr-ratch! . . . Tve got some ’baccy, but you shan’t get . . . 
You rascal! . . . ’Tention! Pr-resent! Fire! . . .” 

The bemedalled corporal seized him by a claw. A cutting 
stroke of the beak made him leave hold. The clumsy bird 
was escaping. Seized again by a dozen hands, he jerked out 
,in a feathery spasm, as his neck was being wrung, a final: 

To Ber-rl ” which expired in a quack. 

The column resumed its march. Pursued by the vision 
of this dead thing, now a ruffle of green feathers mixed with 
mud, Du Breuil walked quickly across the road. He felt 
mortified, as if summary execution had been meted to a por- 
tion of himself, to some of the thoughts and longings they 
all shared, by the stifiing of this voice of grotesque similarity. 

Behind him cavalrymen were now passing. At the 
thought of D’Avol, his hatred was aroused. He overcame an 
impulse to look back. Perhaps Jacques had managed to cut 
through, after all. A wave of envious dislike passed over 
him. He looked round. The gunners were in the distance, 
cavalry was going by. From afar he could recognise through 
the curtain of rain the swaggering gait of heavy Carabineers 
and Cuirassiers under their red cloaks. Then came what 
were once the white cloaks of the Empress’s Dragoons. Sud- 
denly his eyes clouded. A sky-blue tunic among other 
white cloaks disclosed to him the Lancers of the Guard. The 
memory of Lacoste overpowered him. He hungrily watched 
the passage of these men, among whom his friend had lived. 
In that strapping fellow with the jacket, who had attracted 
his notice, he fancied he recognised old Saint-Paul, hobbling 
along. . . . Again he saw the old warrior galloping lance in 
hand, to the rescue of his Captain, and scattering Legrand’s 
murderous dragoons! And Du Breuil recalled the vision of 


412 


THE DISASTER. 


the Yron plateau, the whirlwind of yells and dust, and La- 
coste cut to pieces by French sabres. His eyes filled with 
tears. The Chasseurs and Guides were still defiling. 

He recovered himself, and went on his way. Just as he 
was nearing the Porte de France a cannon-shot burst from 
Fort Saint-Quentin. Mid-day! Through the silence waves 
of sound, re-echoing back, shivered and died away. Du 
Breuil had been startled, accustomed for three days past to 
this oppressive silence, which had fallen from the stilled forts 
like a leaden sheet over the city and cantonments. Instinc- 
tively, he turned his gaze towards Saint-Quentin, and, de- 
spite the distance, he divined rather than saw the final ma- 
nmuvre. A flag was being lowered and another hoisted in its 
place. Metz lay under German colours. France had just 
lost an army of 173,000 men, including 3 Field-Marshals, 
6,000 officers, 41 eagles, 1,407 cannon, and 300,000 rifles, in 
addition to vast material of war. 

He crossed the outworks of the gate and traversed the old 
fortifications, the drawbridge over the moats filled with 
water, and the heavy ramparts. The city could only be en- 
tered hy a narrow passage between the walls of two bastions. 
In a sentry-box he caught sight of the spiked helmet and 
rifle of a hostile sentinel. There was nothing for it but 
to choke down shame and pass before the fellow’s insolent 
stare. 

The Rue de Paris was empty. Not a soul on the Pont 
des Mortes or the Moyen Pont. The Moselle rolled its cur- 
rent of yellowish water, over which the rain was knitting its 
threads. As he went along he felt the silence of the last few 
days weigh more heavily. Broken for an instant by the gun- 
fire, its broad sheet extended more oppressively. Shops all 
closed and windows shuttered. Here and there a woman in 
mourning walking fast. 

Mechanically he followed the road to the Place d’Armes. 
A detachment of the 14th Infantry Regiment was occupying 
it. Between the two great stone trophies, Fabert, in his 
shroud of crape, rendered adherent by the rain, seemed to be 
in fixed contemplation of the sombre dress and low helmets 
of the Prussian advance guard. Du Breuil hastily drew 
back. He wandered long through the half-deserted streets, 
where only such inhabitants as were compelled, and a few 
women carrying tricolour ribbons on their black bodices. 


THE DISASTER. 


413 


could be seen. The rain still fell. He had lost all count of 
time. 

All at once came the sound of harsh music in the dis- 
tance, coming in the direction of the Rue Serpenoise. German 
faces were already to be seen, a motley throng of Jews, offi- 
cials, and doctors. Grating foreign accents broke on the ears. 
Multiplied a hundredfold, he recognised the typical features 
of the Enemy — hard blue eyes, red complexion, and tawny 
beard. He was surprised to be rubbing shoulders peacefully 
with men whom yesterday he would have been obliged to kill. 
His powerlessness revived his hate. He paled with suffering 
at the thought of meeting Baron von Hacks, and reading in 
his eyes, as at the hand-to-hand fight at Rezonville, a look of 
mingled irony, of sardonic politeness. The noise of fanfares 
increased. Disheveled wenches were rushing to meet the 
conquerors. He followed them. On the Place Royale, be- 
fore the statue of Marshal Hey, he saw a Prussian regiment 
march past, colours flying, to the sound of fife and drum. 

This strident noise was insufferable after the days of 
mortal silence. He wanted to rush away. Squadrons blocked 
the road. Just then a gigantic Cuirassier of the Guard 
came out of a house. It was Major Couchorte, in full uni- 
form. He came forward, his arms crossed and head erect. 
His cheeks were suffused with blood. He glared fiercely 
around. At the sight of this man in the transports of heroic 
madness, the German ranks opened to let him pass, and their 
commander, affected by so much suffering, lowered his sword 
in salute. 

Du Breuil made off through the Rue de I’Esplanade. He 
encountered more regiments. Trousers tucked into their 
boots, and their necks gripped in the stiff collar, the ponder- 
ous infantrymen walked in stiff, rhythmic cadence. They 
advanced in a mass, with one movement. With' the heavy 
tread of their heels on the pavement, they seemed to be 
trampling on Metz. Bands began playing everywhere, mak- 
ing brazen announcement of victory to the four corners of 
the town. And Du Breuil, like a hunted animal, felt the 
deafening sound overpower him, struck to the depths of his 
soul by the triumphal tally-ho ! of the fifes and drums. 


414 


THE DISASTER. 


CHAPTER V. 

On Sunday, the 30th, he awoke at the Bersheims’, in a 
small room which was prolific in memories. It was here 
that D’Avol, wounded, had vented his rancour. It was in 
the same bed that D’Avol had lain. He opened the door; 
pale faces were slumbering restlessly on the couches in the 
large room which served as a hospital. Du Breuil’s thoughts 
were troubled and doleful. Rain blurred the window-panes. 
He dressed quickly, and went out on tiptoe through the 
room where the wounded lay. One of them turned in his 
sleep, another was moaning. Du Breuil came to the en- 
trance hall. Lisbeth was sweeping, her eyes red and sw’ollen. 
She insisted that he should take a cup of coffee. Ho, he 
would not. 

“ Is there any news of Bersheim ? ” 

“ Ho ; master has not returned. Heither has Thibaut. 
If something should have happened to them! . . .” 

“ And the little girl ? ” 

“ She is delirious. Sang all night through. Her mother 
knows nothing, fortunately. She is so taken up with the 
baby.” 

In saying this, Lisbeth smiled in spite of her grief. 

“ Didn’t you hear anything, sir ? The pains set in at 
two in the morning. At four o’clock she gave birth to a 
little boy, rather delicate, but lively enough, all the same. 
He has done nothing but cry. Mme. Sophia and Madame 
passed the night together. They are in a great state because 
master does not return.” 

Du Breuil went out. In the yard were three stacks of 
Dreysse rifles. And from the outhouses came the hubbub 
of guttural breathing. He looked in : stretched on the straw 
in two bare chambers were soldiers of the Landwher, packed 
closely, snoring. Stupefaction came over him at the sound. 
He trembled with shame at the brutal violation of it: Metz 
awaking a German city! And the Thibauts’ little girl was 
probably on her death-bed. Another child had just been born. 
Its mournful whinings had followed, only by a few hours, 
the turmoil of fife and drums. Hothing had changed. 
Death and life, joy and pain, continued on.' And they were 
the same pavements, the same streets, the same rain. . . . 


THE DISASTER. 


415 


Ownerless horses wandered about, driven from their stables 
overnight to make room for the horses of the conqueror. 
At the Porte de France two Prussian sentries mounted 
guard, smoking cigars. By the roadside lay a dead horse 
between the shafts of a small cart — a ghastly heap, torn in 
places. Bodies of horses were lying everywhere, producing 
evil smells. In the gutters was a jumble of thousands of 
arms, broken drums, and bundles of cartridges. The camp 
appeared to be one mass of refuse, offal, discarded effects, 
rotting canvas — a dung-heap, a charnel-house. Yellow leaves 
whirled beneath the lowering sky. 

The Ban Saint-Martin was still encumbered with the 
same vast quantity of stores, waiting to be delivered; wag- 
gons piled in inextricable confusion; horses fastened to 
them for the last twenty-four hours, all harnessed and sad- 
dled, dying of hunger. Those that had broken their 
halters were pattering about in the slime. Countrymen, 
horse-dealers, and soldiers foraged around, picking out all 
but the worst. A spectral gelding tumbled into a ditch full 
of water near Du Breuil, had not the strength to rise, and 
died. ... At last, at last, this nightmare was going to end. 
Du Breuil reached Mme. Guimbail’s little house. A yellow- 
ish light shone from Restaud’s window. It was to see him 
that Du Breuil had come back, feeling desperate need of 
shaking the hand of a brave and loyal comrade. What a 
silence in the little house! . . . The door had yielded to his 
touch. No one to show him in. He went upstairs, filled 
with evil forebodings. A ghostly figure rose before him: it 
was Mme. Guimbail, with pale and sorrowful visage, falter- 
ing in her black dress as though she would faint. She 
pointed to Restaud’s room without speaking. The door was 
open. Two candles burned in the sickly daylight. Restaud 
lay stretched on his bed, his tunic open, and shirt all blood- 
stained, revealing a reddish hole on the left breast. They 
had removed the regulation revolver from his tightened clasp. 
Restaud had shot himself with a bullet through the heart. 
He left a letter on the table. And Du Breuil, with clouded 
eyes, stiffening himself in agony not to burst into sobs, read 
the final farewell, biting his lips till they bled : 

My dear Du Breuil: Up to the last minute I did what 
I thought was my duty: I remained at my post. As a sol- 


416 


THE DISASTER. 


dier I submitted to, and endured, that which I could not pre- 
vent. I set an example of discipline and resignation. I 
thought God would give me strength to go to the end. I 
made a mistake; I could not bear so much shame. I prefer 
to die. I hope, dear friend, that you will be stronger than I, 
for my principles, my whole life, condemn my weakness, and 
I die in despair. . . .” 

He could not read further. Restaud spoke of his mother 
and sisters, confiding to him the task of telling them some 
day what were his last thoughts and dying remembrance. 
Unhappy man ! These dear ones had not kept him back. . . . 
He had lain down on his Calvary, crushed by his cross. The 
sacrifice had been beyond his strength. And Du Breuil 
thought with hatred of the impious chief who would have to 
answer for all this suffering, all these dead ! He cursed him 
from the bottom of his heart, the senseless scoundrel, mur- 
derer of his army and murderer of France! He listened 
with throbbing temples to the stories of Frisch and of Mme. 
Guimbail. The orderly, good fellow, was quite broken up. 

‘‘ It was yesterday evening, sir, that I told him the 
Prussians were entering Longueville, occupying the houses. 
He said to me, ‘ All right 1 ’ and shut himself up till nine 
o’clock in the evening.” 

“ I knocked several times,” went on Mme. Guimbail. “ It 
made me anxious that he did not wish to have dinner. All at 
once Jubault rushes upstairs, crying: ^ The Prussians are 
coming here!’ . . . Five seconds — yes, five seconds more, 
and I heard an explosion. Frisch and Jubault got quite pale. 
I leant against the wall to save myself from falling. We all 
had a presentiment of what had happened. . . .” 

And then the rest: the door burst open, no doctor to be 
found, no one at the general staff, and the dead-watchers soft- 
ly coming and going through the silent hours of the night. 
Du Breuil could listen no longer. The mention of presenti- 
ment pursued his mind, besetting him with vague remorse. 
“ Restaud is asleep,” he had thought the other night, after 
knocking vainly at the partition wall. He could now pic- 
ture his dreadful insomnia, the staring eyes, and chin rest- 
ing on his clenched hands. . . . What torture the idea of 
suicide must have meant! Boldly faced, confronted with 
reason, dispersed, yet ever returning, till it had driven its 


THE DISASTER. 


417 


poisoned shaft deep into the brain of this man who was so 
brave, so loyal, so pure. ... Yet supposing Du Breuil had 
insisted! If he had forced the privacy of his chamber, had 
compelled Bestaud to open, to speak, to argue! . . . Who 
knows if he might not have saved him from death. He re- 
membered Bestaud fiercely tearing out the page of the regis- 
ter, submissively rendering himself an accomplice in what was 
very much like a criminal act. That was what had finished 
him. Then Changarnier’s words, repeated by Charlys! . . . 

“ Let the army perish rather than save itself at the loss of 
discipline.” 

They had pushed Bestaud’s hesitating soul into the abyss. 
They had pronounced the verdict, and written the fatal de- 
cree in his blood. 

Du Breuil performed the last sad rites. His hands were 
trembling. With Frisch’s help, he laid the body out, clothing 
Bestaud in full uniform. He kept a medal which his friend 
wore, and cut a lock of his hair. Then he kissed the pale 
forehead, and went away to arrange for the funeral. Would 
he find a priest to bury the suicide? Formalities and dec- 
larations were necessary, for even at this hour the conqueror 
was laying his heavy hand Everywhere. Du Breuil was sad- 
dened to think of how little account was this death. So, 
many other preoccupations abounded. There wps the herd- 
ing of innumerable starving prisoners, the garrisoning and 
revictualling of Metz, the influx of strangers with their 
harsh, guttural tongue, and, behind the armed throng, all 
that followed in its wake: officers, barterers, Jews — an ava- 
lanche in which Du Breuil was tossed about unceasingly. 
By good fortune, he met a rugged, jovial face — the Abbe 
Trudaine, who, with cassock lifted over his ankles, was vainly 
seeking a conveyance to take him to Ars. He consented to 
help Du Breuil out of his difficulty, making a sad gesture, 
and murmuring : Poor fellow ! God will have mercy on 
him. He must have suffered so much ! ” Then, kindly and 
simply : 

“ You may count on me. Major. I will say mass for your 
friend. He shall have Christian burial. I’ll answer for it. 
In such an hour as this, we can only have humble thoughts.” 
But suddenly his eyes flamed out, and he waved his knotty 
stick. Thera is only one man here who deserves no pity; 
it is the Judas who betrayed us.” He poured out a stream 


418 


THE DISASTER. 


of execration against Bazaine in the blunt speech of one ac- 
customed to hear soldiers’ confessions. “ The Prussians 
themselves,” said he, “ have admitted the man’s treachery.” 

He accompanied Du Breuil tO'Mme. Guimbail’s. There 
a little old man, who had heard of the death, saluted him. 
It was M. Poiret, and behind him stood Mme. Poiret. They 
had come to help Mme. Guimbail in her trouble. 

“ Will you believe me now. Major,” said the old fellow, in 
his piping voice, “ when I assure you that Bazaine used to go 
and confer with Frederick Charles? . . . Houzelle, the game- 
keeper, and many others, have seen him.” 

He lowered his voice (his wife was pulling him by the 
sleeve), and offered to find a joiner for the coffin. The Abbe 
Trudaine was already beside the dead body, praying. 

Du Breuil went out with M. Poiret. The latter, drawing 
himself up revengefully, held forth : 

“ The Captain of a sinking ship is last to leave. Bazaine 
saved himself first. But he is already suffering for his 
crimes. . . . Frederick Charles gave him a taste of shame 
yesterday morning. There was no longer any need to deal 
gently, so the Prince refused to receive him before five 
o’clock. The traitor had to pass the day at Moulins, in the 
house where he stopped after Borny. He was victorious that 
evening, and commanded the finest army in France. . . . 
What a reversion with the past ! what humiliation, if he only 
understood it! They tell me his eyes were full of tears as 
he looked at the Grenadiers of his escort. That did not pre- 
vent him eating an omelette. At four o’clock he drove on in 
his carriage. When passing through Ars, the people recog- 
nised and followed him with groans and hisses. The car- 
riage windows were smashed with stones, and women flung 
mud over him.” 

Du Breuil bent his head. The old man’s chirping tones 
were unbearable. It seemed as if all these reproaches re- 
bounded on himself. Why should he feel guilty if his con- 
science uttered no reproach? 

He left M. Poiret and returned into town. The lifeless 
image of Restaud haunted him. There was such grave peace 
on those features, as if in death alone he had found perfect 
content. Then again he saw Bestaud full of life and ardent 
faith, his eyes burning with feverish light. H« compared the 
two visions, and could not believe the sad thing that had hap- 


THE DISASTER. 


419 


pened. Restaud was not dead; that could not be! . . . He 
mused : “ Here am I, alive, coming and going. It is I, the 
unsubmissive one, who passively accept the laws of fate. 
And Restaud, the resigned, Restaud, who was my example, is 
no more.” 

Respect for discipline — a courageous life was his, yet 
death had breathed into his soul. Even this suicide, which 
seemed to have belied a strong, determined career, did not 
belittle his friend. It only bore out the great law of human- 
ity — the law of sacrifice, sterile for the one who conceives it, 
but fruitful for others. . . . But D’AvoTs visage arose in 
his mind, rigid with insult and irony. . . . What had be- 
come of him, that man Jacques whom he had loved even 
while hating him, and whom he now detested with all the 
strength of his former affection? Had he kept his purpose? 
Had he really passed the enemy’s lines? And the others — 
Barrus, Carrouge — all those who had become desperate at 
the last hour, driven along by one idea of escape? 

He followed the old familiar road. A battlefield quiver- 
ing with ravens was not so loathsome as this foetid mass of 
mud and carrion, remnants of dead horses, and heaps of 
swollen intestines. . . . Passing the Porte de France, he saw 
on the ramparts a trio of Prussian artillery officers busy ex- 
amining a gun in its embrasure. In Metz the scene was no 
less doleful: women in mourning, shops closed, the narrow 
streets full of people, disbanded soldiers carrying their little 
sackful under their arms, townspeople at the windows and 
doors, Prussians everywhere. Victors and vanquished walked 
side by side, in proximity, without intermingling. A poor, 
humble face turned aside as he passed. He saw it was Mdlle. 
Sorbet, the old maid whose devoted care had saved Judin 
from dying. 

“ Ah, mademoiselle ! ” he said, quite overcome. She 
recognised him and bent her head. Her smile was sadder 
than tears. A few faltering, confused words passed between 
them, then she let down her veil and went away, her Prayer- 
Book under her arm. She could pray, at least, seeking refuge 
at the feet of a merciful God! 

The eternal fanfare resounded. German troops came 
past. The bandsmen in front beat their flat drums, while 
some of the soldiers were executing grotesque dances. The 
men looked well fed and cared for. They turned curiously 


4:20 


THE DISASTER. 


at the pale, emaciated French officers whom they met. On 
such occasions their officers looked another way. Behind the 
last file there arose a scramble. It was over a cart filled with 
salt. People ate it by handfuls. 

Waggons containing French soldier-prisoners now fol- 
lowed in succession. They were being brought up in loads 
from their cantonments, where they were dying of, cold and 
hunger. Many of them, thoroughly emaciated, rolled their 
eyes listlessly; others, quite stiff, had died on the way. An 
old Captain, who was going into a house with the help of 
crutches, said indignantly to Du Breuil : 

“ So many the less to transport into Germany ! Those 
poor fellows have not eaten for two days. . . .” 

He pointed to some artillery tumbrels that were being 
driven by German horses and gunners. 

“ Do you recognise them ? ” he said. “ They are our own. 
They will be sent on to Thionville. Our artillery, just think 
of it, serving to bombard a French town! . . . Oh, Bazaine! 
Bazaine! . . .” 

A woman wrapped in cashmere, a Jewess’s black scalp-cap 
encircling her brow, passed them. She was leading two 
children, almost albinos. Du Breuil recognised Gugl’s wife. 
There were some German Jews with her. They talked in 
loud tones, with an arrogant air, looking disdainfully at the 
officers. Mme. Gugl cast an exulting glance at Du Breuil. 

“ That riff-raff swarms at present I ” said the old officer. 
“ Yesterday some of the enemy’s waggons came into town 
bringing quantities of bread, wine, meat, eggs, butter and 
milk. Would you believe it, these Shylocks wanted to buy 
up everything so as to sell at a big profit ! The enemy would 
have none of their sordid offers, and the provisions have 
been distributed all round at fair prices. 

“ Oh,” he went on, “ these Prussians know what organiza- 
tion is ! Prisons, police, street-cleaning, they have taken hold 
of every department. Their officials are already at work 
everywhere. General von Kummer is the Governor of Metz. 
Have you seen his proclamation? He’s a man that won’t 
be trifled with! At the divisional headquarters, a German 
officer, speaking French, distributes road-passes. . . . And 
their spies,” he added, looking squarely at an individual who 
was listening to them, “they are everywhere! Poor Stras- 
burg ! poor Metz ! They will never give them back ! ” 


THE DISASTER. 


421 


A Prussian officer, whose passage was blocked by the old 
man’s crutch, turned aside with a polite salute. 

“ They are courteous enough, for all that ! . . . Another 
military band! They are crossing Metz in every direction, 
taking the Paris, Orleans, and Amiens roads. The capitula- 
tion of Metz was all they awaited in order to fall upon our 
poor comrades! Oh, Bazaine! Bazaine! . . 

A fit of coughing interrupted him, swelling the veins in 
his neck. He retired into the house. 

“ Pierre!” 

Maxime!” 

A trunk at his feet, Vicomte Judin was passing in a car- 
riage. He ordered his driver to stop, and called out joy- 
ously : 

What luck to shake hands with you again ! No more 
army — no more headquarters staff or anything! . . . Didn’t 
know where to find you in this hurly-burly. ... I am going 
back to France: is there anything you would like done?” 

“ No, thanks. I have written a long letter to my father, 
and no doubt he will get it.” 

A question rose to Judin’s lips. He was thinking of 
Mme. de Guionic. Out of delicacy he refrained. But giving 
vent to their mutual thoughts, he went on: 

How awfully long it has seemed ! Three months ? No, 
three centuries! . . . Do you know you are getting gray, 
Pierre? And many others have become white-haired! As 
for me, I shall go back a cripple. Will the pretty girls 
recognise us? . . . Our friends at the club must have for- 
gotten our existence.” 

He tried to smile, but his heart was not in it. Du Breuil 
shook his head: 

All that is far away.” 

“Yes, such is my impression. What changes . . . an- 
other Government, another France! Habits and customs, 
nothing remains of what we left behind. ...” 

“ The past is dead,” responded Du Breuil. “We must 
heal our wounds, and get some fresh blood into us.” 

“ It will take long ! ” sighed Judin. 

They were silent. Of course it would take long; but 
France was still standing, though wounded, amputated, and 
bleeding, and her perennial vigour palpitated even at this 
moment in her solitary armies, in the strong heart of Paris — 


422 


THE DISASTER. 


of Paris which ever held out, of Paris whom all had unjustly 
doubted. 

“ I am going to take the train at Ars,” said Judin. “ The 
Prussians turned me out of my hotel. They are selecting 
the best for their quarters. It’s the Hotel de I’Europe that 
the Governor von Hummer and his staff have chosen.” 

The Hotel de I’Europe ! What a bustle there was at that 
place when the war broke out! Du Breuil called to mind 
the little drawing-room on the first-floor, in which thirty 
officers of the great French general staff scribbled, gossiped, 
and laughed, doors banging and windows open, amidst a 
continuous stream of inquirers and journalists. Judin said: 

“ I went there yesterday for my passport. Two sentries 
at the gate, two others at the foot of the stairs. Courtyard 
empty, an icy stillness! Oh! The cold-blooded precision, 
the polite stiffness of the officer on duty, brr — ! . . .” 

He pretended to shiver. Du Breuil’s thoughts went to 
Restaud. He said sadly: 

“ Well, good-bye, old friend! I hope we shall meet again 
soon ! ” 

“ Don’t lose heart,” responded Judin. “ Do you know 
where you will be sent into captivity ? ” 

“ Mayence, I think. ...” 

They embraced. Judin waved his hat as the carriage 
was disappearing. Du Breuil thought enviously : “ Happy 
man to be able to leave ! ” A hand rested on his shoulder : 
it was Laune, looking ghastly pale, his dry features con- 
vulsed, but spick and span as ever. 

“ Do you know what has become of Colonel Charlys ? ” 
he asked anxiously. 

“ Ho, Colonel.” 

He surely cannot have gone ? I refuse to believe, al- 
though they assure me of it, that he went with Carrouge, 
Barrus, and the other hot-heads. . . .” 

Du Breuil did not think so. Charlys had disapproved of 
any such sortie. Laune breathed again. Beneath his icy 
exterior there lurked an affection for Charlys. His anxiety 
showed it. 

“ Our duty now,” he declared, “ is to submit ! ” 

Duty! Oh yes — always duty! He also invoked duty. 

. . . And no doubt he had a right to do so, never having 
failed therein. But Restaud had died of it! He told the 


THE DISASTER. 


423 


news to Laune, whose face, after a tremor of surprise, be- 
came hard and severe: 

“ So much the worse,” he said ; “ it’s sad ! ” 

His tone said clearly, “ It’s culpable.” That was all 
Laune’s oration. The sortie made by the last “ piercers ” 
still worried him, for he repeated: 

“ They could not have got through. Orders were given to 
stop them.” He looked at Du Breuil in sudden expansive- 
ness. “ You were not present yesterday when General Jarras 
bade farewell ? ” 

“ I had made my excuses to him. Colonel.” 

“ There were some twenty-five of us, comrades in good 
and evil fortune, around him,” said Laune. “ All the little 
jarrings and difiiculties of the office were forgotten. It is 
only right to admit that General Jarras’ task was an un- 
grateful one. He tried to say a few farewell words, but 
emotion overpowered him. Silently he shook each of us by 
the hand, and then we were dismissed.” 

Laune’s steely eyes dimmed with sudden moisture. But 
he recovered himself, and with a handshake left Du Breuil. 

They were all in a state of anxiety at the Bersheims’. 
Sohier, who tended a wounded man, was casting frequent 
glances into the courtyard, which the Germans were at that 
moment leaving. In the drawing-room Du Breuil found 
Grandmother Sophia, Anine, and Maurice. Mme. Bersheim 
had withdrawn to her room to pray. Her husband should 
have been back long ago. He had left yesterday with Thi- 
baut, for his farm at ISToisseville, wishing, as he put it, to 
ascertain the damages. They could not account for his con- 
tinued absence. Had the Prussians arrested him? Or were 
they detaining him as a hostage? Von Hummer’s proclama- 
tion threatened summary justice to anyone who might be 
obnoxious to the Germans. . . . 

Quaking with fever, Maurice sat by the fireside, staring 
fixedly at the embers. He narrated to Du Breuil the story 
of the mixed brigade’s surrender. 

“ Lapasset,” he said proudly, “ came with us as far as 
the outposts. You should have heard the simple, hearty 
words he spoke. . . . When the leave-taking came all the 
soldiers were in tears. They could not tear themselves away 
from us.” 

He described his return through the empty, silent canton- 
28 


424 : 


THE DISASTER. 


ments, the solitude caused by the departure of all these 
men, who had left nothing but traces of dirt behind, remem- 
brance of their past misery. 

Du Breuil, overcome by lassitude, took refuge at the other 
end of the drawing-room, where he proceeded to tell Anine 
of Restaud’s death. She listened with deep compassion, 
and, seeing him disheartened, said gently: 

“ Duty that we may not have strength to fulfil, is duty, 
none the less. Despite his sufferings, your friend Restaud 
did not lose sight of the promised land. Let us pity him that 
could not enter ! ” 

She added: 

“ Thibaut’s little girl is very bad. Think of the poor 
man’s grief when he returns! . . . Will you come and see 
her?” 

Du Breuil followed. In a side-room, on a snow-white bed, 
the child lay, encircled by her blond hair, her eyes closed, 
her mouth and nose wearing a pinched look. The brother, 
although forbidden to come, had slipped in, and was then 
beside her, his eyes wide open with silent terror, listening 
to that soft, prolonged rattle. Anine crossed herself. Du 
Breuil felt faint at the sight of this childish innocence sacri- 
ficed to war, dying of the poisoned air of a besieged city. 
He longed to lose all feeling, to suffer no more, to be non- 
existent. Mechanically he stepped after Anine into Bers- 
heim’s study. There they were alone, and she said in a low 
voice : 

“ D’Avol came to bid good-bye the day before yesterday. 
He rode off in full uniform. Could he have passed through ? 
I doubt it. His demeanour made me anxious. He seemed 
ready to dare anything.” 

‘^Yes,” said Du Breuil bitterly, ^‘anything! By his in- 
sults he severed the last ties which bound me to him. My 
friend Lacoste died first, then Restaud — D’Avol is nothing 
more than a stranger to me. I am alone in this scattered 
army, in this place.” 

Anine took his hand. 

“ Don’t say that ; it is unjust.” 

Her smile, her look, told the rest. 

“ Anine,” he murmured, tender hopes struggling with 
doubt in his heart, can it be true! ... You feel for me; 
you have some regard for me ? ” 


THE DISASTER. 


425 


He pressed her hand with fervour. She whispered: 

“ I suffer with you, dear friend. So many things are clear 
to me now ! ” 

“ Oh, how good you are ! ” he replied fervently. 

She read the avowal on his lips, in his look. Beseech- 
ingly, she stopped it: 

“ No, dear friend, we do not belong to ourselves at pres- 
ent ; we have not the right to think of ourselves ! . . . Later, 
later. . . .” 

“ You are right, Anine. But moments are precious. 
Later — when will that be? Yet . . . But now I dare not 
utter the word which burns my lips.” 

“ Why say it, friend ? My heart can hear.” 

She became scarlet all at once, as if the heart’s blood 
had leapt to her face. Du Breuil gazed at her in sad en- 
chantment. 

A carriage drove into the courtyard, its horse all swelter- 
ing. Two men, whose faces glistened with fever, utterly 
exhausted, got down. They were Bersheim and Thibaut. 

“ Father!” 

Bersheim was in Anine’s arms. The three of them 
scanned each other. 

“ D’Avol has escaped,” said Bersheim. “ By this time 
he must have reached the frontier ! ” 

Du Breuil’s heart beat as if it would burst. What! 
D’Avol had crossed the Prussian lines! He could serve and 
fight again! . . . His thoughts were inflamed with jealousy 
and hatred. Bersheim’s story exalted and chilled him. 
D’Avol had got away in a madcap fit of folly. . . . Followed 
by the carriage, he went off through fields and forests. 
Fifteen miles from Metz, two Uhlans had stopped him, ask- 
ing by what authority he was thus taking his departure. In 
reply, D’Avol handed one a printed form, and while the 
Prussian was trying to read it, he pulled a pistol out of his 
holster and blew the man’s brains out. The other Uhlan 
ran away. D’Avol then, putting spurs to his horse, rode on 
at full speed. ... 

The tragedy happened before Bersheim’s eyes. Ques- 
tioned as to his delay, he explained that there had been an 
accident — one of the wheels broke. They had to go back to 
Noisseville to find a blacksmith. . . . Maurice came in, fol- 
lowed by Mme. Bersheim, who flung henself on her husband’s 


426 


THE DISASTER. 


neck. Under a storm of questions, he recounted afresh the 
story of D’AvoFs escape, which the young subaltern heard 
with glistening eyes. Then Bersheim began complaining 
of the state in which he had found his farm, i^othing but 
smouldering walls were left. Only one vision hauntingly 
pursued Du Breuil — D’Avol as he split the Uhlan’s skull and 
escaped ! From envying him for his success, he hated him all 
the more. 

In the drawing-room, so Lisbeth announced, were M. 
Krudger, Sohier, Mine. Le Martrois, and Gustave, waiting. 
Bersheim began to recite his troubles again. He spoke of 
the earth laid waste, farm buildings ruined, the garden torn 
up, trees sawn off at the roots, vineyards pillaged. There 
would be no harvest for five or six years. All the wine in 
the^ cellars had been drunk or wasted. Live stock, corn, 
forage, furniture, bedding, all had disappeared in the sys- 
tematic Prussian method of destruction. . . . His resent- 
ment exhaled itself in bitter words. While the carriage was 
being repaired at Hoisseville, he had gone in a pea'sant’s 
cart to explore the neighbourhood, wdshing to assure himself 
of the existence of that threefold girdle of hostile earthworks, 
the details and plans of which Bazaine had purposely spread 
abroad. . . . But it proved to be a wild-goose chase! The 
famous batteries of Sainte-Barbe turned out to be nothing 
more or less than a simiile trench. 

M. Krudger smiled grimly. 

“ To the north-west of Metz, it appears that the Prussian 
camps at Marange and Moyeuvre, and the batteries at Peves 
and Semecourt, have been abandoned for some time. As 
for the north-east, my son yesterday saw what terrible earth- 
works they were! Just a pitiful intrenchment, not more 
than two feet high. We have simply been played with all 
round! Ko more stores, they said. But the forts had their 
stock of provisions ! At Plappeville it has been found 
that there were quantities of barrels of salt pork, biscuits, 
bags of rice, coffee, fodder, wine, and brandy. . . . And the 
cellars at the Engineers’ barracks contain large stores of 
pork ! ” 

“ And did you know,” said Gustave Le Martrois, “ that at 
the Ursulines, in the Hue Saint-Marcel, there are two hun- 
dred and forty thousand metres of cloth and twenty-five 
thousand pairs of boots? They could have clothed and shod 


THE DISASTER. 


427 


all those poor soldiers, who still shiver and die in the cold 
and rain ! ” 

Mme. Le Martrois spoke pityingly of the sufferings of 
the soldiers and poor of Metz, and described with satisfaction 
all the aid that was arriving from outside. Caravans of 
charitable folk were swarming, German deaconesses, ladies’ 
societies from Belgium. Women of Metz hailed with delight 
these sisters and brethren from foreign lands, from Eng- 
land, Holland, and Luxemburg, who had come to help them 
in the relief of so much misery. She went into raptures over 
an enormous ambulance waggon drawn by four horses under 
the guidance of a chief with flowing beard. 

In the silence which followed Maurice’s teeth could be 
heard chattering. He sat doubled up near the fire. 

“ Come along, you come with me ! ” suddenly called out 
Sohier, who had listened sombrely without a word. “ Come 
with me, my boy ! A good bed at the hospital is better than 
those plans of escape you are meditating ! ” 

And repaid by a grateful look from Anine, who kissed her 
brother, shrugging his shoulders at the superfluous recom- 
mendations with which Bersheim followed him, Sohier led 
the young Lieutenant away by the arm, with the same bully- 
ing air as if he were taking him to the police-station. Du 
Breuil went out with them. . . . Again there was the cold, 
the rain, the darkness and mud, and the mournful return 
to the little house, where two men were nailing Restaud in 
his coffin. There was the last night-watch over the remains 
of his friend, the making ready for exile. Breaking the still- 
ness came the occasional sound of a halter-chain and a horse 
kicking its stall-bar. Cydalise was frisky again, eating 
away to her heart’s desire. . . . 

Restaud’s funeral took place in the morning. The worthy 
priest kept his promise, and performed his sacred office. 
Mme. Guimbail, the Poirets, and a few stray uniforms stood 
grouped in the little church. Home again, Du Breuil took 
a general look around — the simple furniture, the iron bed- 
stead, on which he had passed so many feverish nights, the 
flowered wall-paper, the belated calendar, still marking 28 : 
Prise de Berlin! . . . 

Never would he forget that little room ! . . . Going down 
to take leave of Mme. Guimbail, he waited a long time in 
the parlour. The furtive attentions of his hostess recurred 


428 


THE DISASTER. 


to him, with the idea that it had only rested with himself 
to find a ready affection on her part. During the requiem 
he had noticed that she avoided his gaze, keeping her eyes 
obstinately on her Prayer-Book when she was not wiping 
the tears from them. At last the door opened to admit the 
widow. She had been to bathe her tear-stained face. Its 
emaciated pallor had a delicate charm, which was > reflected 
by the slender body in its plain black dress. Du Breuil 
thought of this frail form suddenly bending in his embrace, 
of the lips turning away in a half-reciprocated kiss. He 
bowed, and in few heart-felt words thanked her for what 
she had done for Restaud and for himself. She listened in 
extreme agitation, flushed and pale by turns. As he shook 
her hand, a thin, cold hand, rather red, she uttered a little 
cry, and, rushing away, all in tears, to the door, disappeared, 
leaving him with the soft, but somewhat ludicrous, memory 
of what might have been, if he had wished. . . . 


CHAPTER VI. 

In Metz, Du Breuil came across Marquis. 

Not at all surprising,” said that gossip, that Bazaine 
should have turned traitor. Do you know what Germany 
gave him? Five millions. Sentence of death has been hang- 
ing over him since October 20th. Bah! he is taking away 
his treasure. That will furnish him every delight at Cassel. 
It is there that the Field-Marshals will go.” 

Du Breuil inquired after Carrouge. 

“Carrouge?” repeated Marquis. “He cut through the 
enemy’s lines with Barrus and seven hundred and thirty-, 
three gunners.” 

A long string of carts came by, loaded with boxes, beds, 
and furniture. It was the exodus of the country people to 
their ruined villages. They had flocked in before the siege, 
fleeing before the invader; now they were returning. Old 
women propped on mattresses, and little children, gazed 
around with astonished eyes. Du Breuil thought he knew 
some faces: women and girls with features distorted by 


THE DISASTER. 


429 


weeping, who looked at him as they passed, and sombre 
peasant lads, who turned away their heads. The procession 
crept along, broken at every step by market carts besieged 
by hungry buyers or anxious housewives. Soldiers begged 
for bread; others, heavy with liquor, were cursing Bazaine 
while a couple of Prussians led them away. The cartloads 
of red quilting, cradles, and bedsteads still came on. Behind 
one of them, barefoot, a bundle at the end of a stick thrown 
over her shoulder, marched a white-haired crone, one of the 
Pythonesses of the highway. Here and there came gipsies 
with their waggons. 

Suddenly one of the countrymen — a man in a blue smock, 
with unkempt beard, and red bandanna round his neck — ■ 
who was whistling as he whipped up a sorry nag, looked at 
him with curious eyes. Barrus! There were spies there, 
then — enemies. . . . Barrus facetiously pulled off his cap to 
Du Breuil, and went on his way, rolling his shoulders like a 
true carter. 

But I know him,” lisped a very pretty woman, hang- 
ing on the arm of her ruddy-faced escort. Mme. de Pontades 
had caught sight of Du Breuil, and, drawing him closer with 
a handshake, said: 

Henri, this is M. du Breuil. Is it not true. Major, that 
man is M. Barrus? What a strange fellow! I know him 
well, with his red. Republican ideas I ” 

My dear,” muttered her husband, with visible fright, 
speak lower. Do you want to get him arrested ? ” 

Her cheeks were aglow, and the eyes gleamed mischiev- 
ously. She persuaded Du Breuil to accompany them. 

“ Do come ; we are going to have some tea ! ” 

He owed her that much for the sake of the visit they 
had paid together to poor Blache at Saint-Clement’s college. 

“ I will make you acquainted with my brother, who ar- 
rived yesterday,” she added, and with whom we are leaving.” 

M. de Pontades again grumbled to himself. But she un- 
ceremoniously despatched him to buy some cakes, and took 
Du Breuil’s arm. She was in a joyous mood. It made him 
feel his sorrow more beside this elegant, capricious woman. 

“You do not know the Abbe?” she resumed. “He is 
charming ! ” And in the parlour, where she led Du Breuil : 
“Georges,” she said, “a friend.” 

Looking slender in his fine cassock, a young, sleek-faced 


430 


THE DISASTER. 


man rose to meet them. He was smiling. It was by that 
smile that Hu Breuil, after a little hesitation, which greatly 
amused Mme. de Fontades, recognised the priest. 

“Yqu!” he cried. He drew back so quickly that He- 
cherac’s smile faded in uneasiness. How you have 
changed ! ” he said at last. “ The epaulet suited you better.’’ 

“He is quite unrecognisable!” exclaimed Mme. de Fon- 
tades. “ Why, look, he is even tonsured ! ” 

Without a moustache, Decherac’s nose seemed to have 
lengthened, and his chin become more projecting. He had 
lost all semblance of martial looks. Hu Breuil was shocked 
at such a disguise. But since Restaud’s death and the flight 
of H’Avol, his judgment had become somewhat blunted. 
Hecherac got the beneflt of this indulgent listlessness. But 
his sensitive nature had felt the unvoiced aspersion; and so, 
resuming his confident air and smile, he said : 

“ We have to get through as best we can. This dress does 
honour to its wearer.” 

To think that self-respecting people should be reduced to 
such sophistry! Well! . . . What if he also thought it his 
duty to escape, no matter how; to go and take his place in 
the ranks of the defenders? . . . Was it possible in this chaos 
to do otherwise than interpret duty according to one’s con- 
victions ? . . . What an awful doubt if he, Hu Breuil, should 
have made a mistake! . . . M. de Fontades came in holding 
a parcel tied with pink ribbon. 

“ The French colours,” he said, with a satisfied air, “ still 
float from the cathedral spire, making fun of the Prussians, 
who gape up at them in disgust.” 

Having drank some tea, Hu Breuil took leave. Hespite 
the kindness of his hosts, he had been unable to overcome his 
discomfort, and Hecherac’s smile was still constrained. After 
all, there would be some danger for him, especially with so 
compromising a guide as this pretty woman. Hu Breuil 
thought only of the cheery comrade who used to laugh when 
the bullets were whistling. Fie gripped the disguised man’s 
hand cordially, and wished him good-luck with all his heart. 
They had avoided the burning question of the hour, the de- 
parture into captivity which was even then encumbering the 
railway-station of Metz. A first convoy of five hundred 
general and field ofiicers had left two days previously. An- 
other had been timed to leave last night, and the next one. 


THE DISASTER. 


431 


which started on the morrow, would carry away Du Breuil 
with Frisch and Cydalise. 

Some feverish hours, a night broken with oppressive 
dreams, and the time of departure for Germany at last came. 
An hour before the train left, Du Breuil was on the spot, 
obeying the victors’ orders. On the previous day a Prussian 
officer had handed him his road-pass at the divisional head- 
quarters. Above the hubbub of a roomful of officers waiting 
there, irrespective of rank, the German had suddenly rapped 
his bony fingers on the table, demanding silence. . . . He 
offered immediate liberty to those who would give their 
parole not to serve again while the war lasted. . . . An in- 
dignant murmur was the only reply. Du Breuil vainly 
looked for Vedel. He, however, met La Manse, who told 
him the end of the Chasseurs d’Afrique: 

“We had halted by the roadside. A young officer of the 
Prussian general staff came by, making his charger prance 
and caracole to the top of his bent. The mud flew all over 
the Chasseurs’ uniforms. Complaints were heard, but he 
went on. ‘ Stop it ! ’ cried a voice. He pretended not to 
hear. Then they made one rush, and in the twinkling of an 
eye horse and rider were swept into the ditch.” 

Another incident came to Du Breuil’s mind, a touching 
one this time. Entering the noisy, encumbered room had 
come those two inseparables. Colonel la Maisonval, hobbling 
as usual, and Captain Laprune — Orestes and Pylades, as they 
were called. The brave fellows wanted permission to join 
their men. Du Breuil concluded that Vedel had done the 
same. 

Just at this moment, while he was in the waiting-room at 
the station, uniforms everywhere — Generals, Aides-de-camp, 
all the chief personnel of the Army of the Rhine — Vedel 
came up to him, and in quiet tones replied to his questioning : 

“ Why, of course, Pierre, I am going with my men. And 
I am not the only one. Colonel Saussier with a thousand 
others have refused to be prisoners on parole. We shall go 
to some distant fortress. Well, we shall be able to take care 
of our soldiers. With you it is different; you have not the 
personal responsibility of a regimental officer. . You have 
only to do with your superiors and yourself.” 

In a voice struggling with emotion, he related the pitiful 
ordeal of leading his company to the corral. 


432 


THE DISASTER. 


“ If you had seen those brave fellows — old fighters who 
had never flinched — marching with bent head like a herd of 
sheep. hTo; I cannot tell you what I suffered, tramping 
alongside in the mud. ... I fancied myself back in the 
ranks the day of our retreat on Verdun. What dust! . . . 
Then at Saint-Privat — pretty warm work that was I . . . On 
reaching the Chateau de Ladonchamps gate, we had to say 
good-bye. What adieux ! ” 

Du Breuil smiled sadly. 

“ Poor Casimir I Do you remember the day you brought 
those documents to the Ministry of War ? ” 

He thought of their meeting, and reproached himself for 
the poor opinion he had then formed of his cousin. Later 
he had learned to know and appreciate him. He no longer 
thought him coarse, despite his thick hands and hob-nailed 
shoes. 

“ What a lot of big epaulets! ” said Vedel. 

It’s the train for Generals and the headquarters staff,” 
replied Du Breuil. 

And while he exchanged salutes, a feeling of bitterness 
came over him to see them hurrying along — these men with 
energetic features, some with white hair, some whose dry, 
tanned looks marked the sprightly African warrior; others 
stout and heavy, as if fossilized by the cosy inertia of a pro- 
vincial command, or exhausted by society life — drawing- 
room officers, habitues of the Opera. Those who had served 
in the cavalry could be picked out by their brisk, decisive 
bearing, while the infantry and staff generals were less 
wieldy. Surrounded by their Aides-de-camp, who hovered 
about on the alert, all these chiefs, whether old or young, 
wore, under their oak-leaf-embroidered caps, the pride of 
command in their steely eyes. If some stooped as if under 
the weight of a crushing burden, many, on the other hand, 
stood erect, boldly facing the past, and thinking of the 
future. Many had fulfilled their duty, and could boast them- 
selves free of reproach. Their frank, stern faces, crossed 
with suffering and resignation, had that day an expression 
of greater dignity than ever, coupled with the splendour 
that comes from the soul. 

In silence Du Breuil and Vedel regarded them, thinking 
of a leader’s duties, the terrible responsibility assumed by 
these lords of the soldier’s life and honour! They recounted 


THE DISASTER. 


433 


their names as they passed, and their hearts warmed with 
the hope that some of them one day, sooner or later, would 
lead them to revenge. If they saw one of them compelled 
to approach the Prussian officers who were arranging the de- 
parture, they were sorry for him. Some held aloof, encir- 
cled by their Aides-de-camp. Others were giving orders in 
a loud, imperious voice, as if they were still in command. 
But, despite the endeavour to remain dignified to the end, 
none could repress an occasional look of fury, a laugh of 
despair. Boisjol saw Du Breuil,but turned his back. Chenot 
huddled his shoulders, wrapped in a fur coat, his red neck 
gleaming over the collar. . . . Du Breuil thought of all the 
missing ones who, at the outbreak of hostilities, had formed 
part of the imperial general staff: Jaillant, Lebrun, and 
others who were in captivity since Sedan fell. . . . And 
when he came out on the platform and saw the immense 
train of over fifty compartments and waggons coupled to 
two locomotives, it reminded him of another sight ; the fever- 
ish bustle of the crowd, with all its gold lace and crosses, 
amid a constant rustling of heavy-bullioned epaulets, made 
him think of the departure from the little station at Saint- 
Cloud one summer day, of another train, of dark-green car- 
riages with a gilt ]Sr, bearing the Emperor and the Prince 
Imperial and their escort of Generals and Aides-de-camp, and, 
along with them, the destinies of the country, the fortunes of 
France! 

Where were they now, the destinies of the country, the 
fortunes of France? Who could distinguish them through 
the gloom of this mournful autumn day? . . . Generals and 
Aides-de-camp piled into the gigantic train; this time they 
were not travelling to glory, but to exile and bondage, in the 
bitterness of humiliation such as had not been seen. 

Vedel smiled. 

“ Some third-class carriages! You will have a seat, at all 
events ! ” 

Du Breuil understood ; the officers who came in the next 
trains and the thousands of soldiers would have to journey 
in goods or cattle waggons, exposed to all the inclemency of 
the weather. 

He had already shaken hands with Charlys and Laune, 
who were taking places in front. 

Are you getting in with us ? ” Laune had asked. 


434 


THE DISASTER. 


And Du Breuil reserved a seat by covering it with his 
cloak and satchel. Around them there was a general rush. 
Horses were being entrained amidst the bustle of orderlies. 

We do not start for another hour,” said Massoli, com- 
ing up. He looked twenty years younger, cleanly shaven, 
and his hair shining like boot-blacking. Had they pro- 
visioned the Metz hairdressers ? “ The Guards are awaiting 
their turn,” he said. “ The officers have been standing in 
the rain for some hours past.” He lowered his voice : “ Is 
there any news of Major Leperche?” 

Bourbaki’s Aide-de-camp had determined to get away at 
all hazards. 

“ And of Carrouge ? ” 

“ Carrouge ? ” said Massoli, with satisfied irony ; “ why, 
he is there with his comrades! He couldn’t cross the lines, 
and gave it up. That’s wisest.” 

Du Breuil set out to look for Carrouge. He found him 
outside the station, trembling with rage, his arms crossed, 
glaring fixedly at a sentry who formed part of the line of 
surveillance. 

“Would you believe it?” he murmured. “Those brutes 
have just loaded their rifles before us, just as if we were 
convicts!” He added: “I didn’t get through. Wandered 
about all Friday night, and stumbled against the French 
outposts. They kept me under guard, and brought me back 
to camp. I hope Leperche was more lucky ! ” 

Marquis broke in. But before he had time to say a word, 
Carrouge scorched him with a look. 

“Oh, come now! enough of your nonsense! You just 
leave us alone, old moon-calf ! ” And in a lower voice he 
said, with a shrug : “ I never saw such a fool ! ” 

In the large waiting-room, Du Breuil, still followed by 
Vedel, suddenly found himself confronting Bersheim and 
Anine. Everyone noticed the girl. She looked very tall in 
her mourning. 

Du Breuil was overcome with joy mixed with sadness. 
He had bade farewell to the hospitable house, taken cheery 
leave of Grandmother Sophia, Mme. Bersheim, and her hus- 
band, and kissed Anine’s hand. He did not expect to see 
them again. The feeling of kindness and affection which 
had brought them there affected him to tears. So they had 
wished to relieve his departure of its bitter loneliness. Bers- 


THE DISASTER. 


435 


heim got hold of Vedel, while there before everybody Du 
Breuil and Anine, with the loyalty of simple hearts who 
have nothing to conceal, gazed into each other’s eyes, all 
their being deliciously thrilled. 

Love transfigured the lame, homely words they exchanged, 
giving a strange sweetness to the agony of departure. He 
and she seemed all alone, and through the cold and darkness 
of the road the girl’s image would remain before him. The 
vision disappeared. Orders to take their seats! Bersheim 
and Anine went away. The crape veil, the brown hair, and 
white neck vanished in the distance. Du Breuil could only 
see Vedel, who was smiling. 

Then they hugged each other again and again. 

“ Don’t lose heart 1 ” they both urged with a smile ; but 
the tears would fall down their cheeks. 

“ Here, Du Breuil I ” called Charlys. 

He got into the compartment. Francastel and Floppe 
were there, also fat Colonel Jacquemere, who was mopping 
himself, having run. Then followed half an hour’s wait. Du 
Breuil saw Frisch’s anxious face, wanting to tell him that 
Cydalise was all right. Vedel stood on the platform, ever 
smiling. Charlys talked as though in a fever-fit, and Jacque- 
mere was overhauling his trunk. Du Breuil withdrew into 
himself, under a darkly-luminous spell. ... A short hal- 
lucination came over him, revealing past incidents in the 
glitter of street-lamps on wet, black pavement. It was night 
on the Place de la Concorde, and Mme. de Guionic’s 
brougham sped along, its lamps gleaming yellow on the 
shinjr roadway. . . . Change of scenery to polished floors 
reflecting many tapers at the evening reception at Saint- 
Cloud. . - . Jousset-Gournal sanctimonious, M. Chartrain 
anxious. . . . ^‘ Well, he will see his son again, if he does not 
die in a dungeon! . . .” Mme. d’Avilar, Mme. Langlade 
... ah! The little Lieutenant stretched out with rifled 
pockets on the battlefield of Rezonville, his ring-finger 
sawn off. 

Big Manhers, Favergues the publicist, Admiral La Veron- 
nech, the arrogant Count Duclos, the whole array of coun- 
cillors and mainstays of the Empire, are there, in humming 
groups, excited over the Due de Grammont’s declaration. 
... Where are they now ? . . . The whirlwind has passed. 
Ho doubt many are saying, told you so!” while they 


436 


THE DISASTER. 


blaspheme the Government which made them. . . . What 
are the old Du Breuils thinking of, withdrawn far from the 
world in their chateau in the recesses of the Creuse? . . . 
And Thedenat in his little parlour, where the caged canaries 
flap their wings, does he ponder on the fulfllment of his 
prophecies, while Mme. Thedenat plies her needle, giving 
ear to the boom of siege-guns ? 

“We are off! ” cried Francastel joyously, with a sigh of 
relief. 

The train started, and in mortified silence Generals and 
officers of the Army of the Rhine sped out of the city whither 
they had come so full of hope. Charlys and Du Breuil 
exchanged looks. 

“ On the road again ! ” said Charlys. 

Yes, thought Du Breuil, it was they who remained that 
were to be pitied, the ones upon whom 'devolved the task of 
making lists and inventories; they would have to drink the 
cup to the last dregs. Floppe was relating the arrest of 
M. Mayer, editor of the Independant de la Moselle. A Prus- 
sian officer had made it in the station. The last order signed 
by Bazaine had been one for the punishment of this journal- 
ist, who, despite intimidation and censure, had been cour- 
ageous enough, on the very day of the capitulation of Metz, 
to call attention in his foremost columns to Article 209 of 
the Military Code : “ Punishment of death and degradation 
for any Governor or Commandant who surrenders the fort 
which has been entrusted to him ; ” and Article 210 : “ Pun- 
ishment of death and degradation for , any Commander-in- 
Chief who capitulates in the field before doing all that duty 
and honour require.” 

Laune’s head was riveted at the window, his lips com- 
pressed, and his whole manner breathing dignified silence.- 
They passed by the station workshops and sped beside the 
Nancy road, of which the trees had been cut down, exposing 
to view the meadows sloping towards the Moselle. This road 
had been the via dolorosa of the negotiator for capitulation 
and his officers. To the left rose the hills of Montigny, 
whence, on August 15th, had sped that insulting shell which, 
falling beside the imperial quarters, hastened the Emperor’s 
flight. 

The train slackened, heads craned out; they were stop- 
ping. 


THE DISASTER. 


437 


“What’s the matter?” asked Fraiicastel. 

Laune did not answer. At length Jacquemere said : 

“ Our men ! ” 

A long column of prisoners was passing some distance 
from the road, with bent head and shoulders, flanked on each 
side by soldier-guards. Many a white face in the crowd 
had turned towards the train. And these old Generals, who 
had braved death on the battlefield, and heard without flinch- 
ing the desperate cries of the wounded, now paled and low- 
ered their eyes. Many a one, perhaps, that had isolated him- 
self in the altitude of his rank, felt remorse and bitterly 
felt his impotence. Too late now for the cheering word or 
the look that consoles. All realized how much gratitude they 
owed these men, who to the last day had done them credit, 
and with flushed faces, moved by a common impulse, they 
rushed to the windows to salute their noble comrades in mis- 
fortune, the obscure heroes of Rezonville and Saint-Privat. 

When every man in this immense convoy had tasted his 
sorrow, the train resumed its way. 

Some minutes later it stopped again. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” asked Du Breuil this time. 

Laune did not answer. His face could not be seen, but 
his shoulders heaved convulsively. 

Charlys got up precipitately, uttering a shout of rage: 

“ Oh, our colours ! ” 

Du Breuil, Jacquemere, and Floppe, squeezed in to get a 
look. From the whole length of the train arose the fierce, 
desperate cry : “ Our colours ! our colours ! ” . . . F acing 
Frescati Chateau a long, broad lawn extended to the railway 
line, and there, planted in two rows, forming an avenue of 
fame, were all the standards. A Prussian foot soldier quietly 
mounted guard. The eagles surmounting the poles glittered 
with outstretched wing. Their folds of glorious tattered 
silk, whereon the deeds of each regiment were blazoned in 
letters of gold, hung limply. Some had the cross of honour, 
reflecting an added distinction. In the tricolour gleamed the 
blood of the dead and the blue sky of their country. The 
soul of the Revolution and the triumphs of the two Empires 
throbbed in those fame-laden trophies. 

“ Fifty-three eagles ! ” counted Charlys. 

“ No,” said Floppe. “ Forty-one — that’s the ofiicial 
number.” 


438 


THE DISASTER. 


Oharlys growled: 

Count them yourself ! Bazaine didn’t stick at a dozen 
colours, more or less. He gave good measure. . . . By the 
spadeful! ... by the heap! ...” 

He wrung his hands. Laune kept down the tears. Floppe 
ground out : 

“We can’t come up to them! . . . What a brutal stage- 
effect ! what refinement of torture ! . . .” 

Du Breuil raised his head. 

Had the enemy captured those standards in battle? Ho. 
. . . It was only by subterfuge that Bazaine could deliver 
them into the enemy’s hands. And those that were lost, 
either by burning or destruction, discounted the humiliation 
meted out to the remainder! . . . This row of eagles was 
nothing but a mass of dumb, lifeless matter. . . . How could 
it affect the vanquished? . . . The enemy might buffet cap- 
tive Generals with these profaned tatters; they might strew 
our soldiers along the muddy road to the uttermost parts of 
Germany; but every Frenchman there could look without 
shame, boldly, at the dazzling proofs of France’s immortal 
pride thus displayed. What mattered the overthrow of the 
Empire, or such reverses as Sedan and Metz? What mat- 
tered the misfortunes that might follow? Hope revived in 
every breast; fortune would change; the blackest clouds 
have a silver lining. Despair was banished. 

In the chilly compartment, where every man was silent 
as if in a death-room, Du Breuil mused with gleaming eyes. 
. . . Lacoste, Bestaud, Blache, and so many brave fellows 
whom he loved, were no more ! ... War with its red sickle 
had cut deep into the quivering flesh of the nation. A 
chorus of wailing rose up from desolate hearths. He cursed 
these times of dreadful trial. But since he had lived through 
them, let them at least serve as a lesson! They had drifted 
into presumptuous idleness, into the disintegrating influ- 
ence of a life of carelessness and pleasure, and the awaking 
had been full of horror. But over this black darkness would 
rise a morn of redemption. However dreadful it might be, 
war had taught him to know himself, and to know others. 
In many souls it had wakened dormant energies. It had 
given the lesson of endurance, of unity, of heroism. It had 
slain many men, but created others. The example of the 
dead would fortify the living. 


THE DISASTER. 


439 


In the awful crucible where the disaster had heaped, 
along with the trophies of the Empire, arms, filth, ruined 
fortunes, illusions destroyed, all the despair of a nation — the 
future boiled like metal in fusion. Out of it a new France 
would arise. 


THE EXD. 


29 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


STEPHEN CRANE’S BOOKS. • 
third violet. i2mo. Cloth, $i.oo. 

“ By this latest product of his genius our impression of Mr. Crane is con- 
firmed that, for psychological insight, for dramatic intensity, and for the potency of 
phrase, he is already in the front rank of English and American writers of fiction, 
and that he possesses a certain separate quality which places him apart.” — London 
A cademy. 

“ The whole book, from beginning to end, fairly bristles with fun, ... It is adapted 
for pure entertainment, yet it is not easily put down or forgotten.” — Boston Herald. 


T 


HE LITTLE REGIMENT^ and Other Episodes 

of the American Civil War. i 2 mo. Cloth, $i.oo. 


“ In ‘ The Little Regiment' we have again studies of the volunteers waiting impa- 
tiently to fight and fighting, and the impression of the contest as a private soldier hears, 
sees, and feels it, is really wonderful. The reader has no privileges. He must, it seems, 
take his place in the ranks, and stand in the mud, wade in the river, fight, yell, swear, 
and sweat with the men. He has some sort of feeling, when it is all over, that he has 
been doing just these things. This sort of writing needs no praise. It will make its 
way to the hearts of men without praise.” — New York Times. 

“ Told with a verve that brings a whiff of burning powder to one’s nostrils. . . . 
In some way he blazons the scene before our eyes, and makes us feel the very impetus 
of bloody war.” — Chicago Evening Post. 



AGGIE: A GIRL 

i 2 mo. Cloth, 75 cents. 


OF 


THE 


STREETS. 


“ By writing ‘ Maggie ’ Mr. Crane has made for himself a permanent place in lit- 
erature. . . . Zola himself scarcely has surpassed its tremendous portrayal of throb* 
bing, breathing, moving life.” — New York Mail and Express. 

“Mr. Crane’s story should be read for the fidelity with which it portrays a life 
that is potent on this island, along with the best of us. It is a powerful portrayal, and, 
if somber and repellent, none the less true, none the less freighted with appeal to those 
who are able to assist in righting wrongs.”— York Times. 


T 


HE RED RADGE OF CO DR AGE. -An Episode 

of the American Civil War. i2mo. Cloth, $i.oo. 


“ Never before have we had the seamy side of glorious war so well depicted. . . . 
The action of the story throughout is splendid, and all aglow with color, movement, 
and vim. The style is as keen and bright as a sword-blade, and a Kipling has don© 
nothing better in this line.” — Chicago Evening Post. 

“ There is nothing in American fiction to compare with it. . . . Mr. Crane has 
added to American literature something that has never been done before, and that is, 
in its own peculiar way, inimitable.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ A truer and completer picture of war than either Tolstoy or Zola.” — London New 
Review. 


New York: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 


i 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


BY S. R. CROCKETT. 

Uniform edition. Each, i2mo, cloth, $1.50. 

ADS* LOVE. Illustrated. 

“ It seems to us that there is in this latest product much of the realism of per- 
sonal experience. However modified and disguised, it is hardly possible to think that 
the writer’s personality does not present itself in Saunders McQuhirr. . . . Rarely has 
the author drawn more truly from life than in the cases of Nance and ‘the Hempie'; 
never more typical Scotsman of the humble sort than the farmer Peter Chrystie.” — 
London A thenceum, 

“ A thoroughly delightful book. . . . It is hearty, wholesome, full of pleasant light 
and dainty touches. It must be regarded as one of the best things that Crockett has 
written.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 

^LEG KELLY, ARAB OF THE CLTY. His 

Progress and Adventures. Illustrated. 

“A masterpiece which Mark Twain himself has never rivaled. ... If there ever 
was an ideal character in fiction it is this heroic ragamuffin.” — London Daily 
Chronicle. 

“ In no one of his books does Mr. Crockett give us a brighter or more graphic 
picture of contemporary Scotch life than in ‘ Cleg Kelly.’ ... It is one of the great 
books.” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

OG-MYRTLE AND PEAT. Third edition. 

“Here are idyls, epics, dramas of human life, written in words that thrill and 
burn. . . . Each is a poem that has an immortal flavor. They are fragments of 
the author’s early dreams, too bright, too gorgeous, too full of the blood of rubies 
and the life of diamonds to be caught and held palpitating in expression’s grasp.”— 
Boston Courier. 

“ Hardly a sketch among them all that will not afford pleasure to the reader for 
its genial humor, artistic local coloring, and admirable portrayal of character.” — 
Boston Home Jotirnal. 

“ One dips into the book anywhere and reads on and on, fascinated by the writer’s 
charm of manner.” — Minneapolis Trihine. 

HE LILAC SUNBONNET. Eighth edition. 

“ A love story pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, wholesome, sun- 
shiny kind, with a pure-minded, sound hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a 
good and beautiful woman ; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written 
this year, it has escaped our notice.” — Neiu York Times. 

“The general conception of the story, the motive of which is the growth of love 
between the young chief and heroine, is delineated with a sweetness and a freshness, 
a naturalness and a certainty, which places ‘ The Lilac Sunbonnet ’ among the best 
stories of the time.” — New York Mail and Express. 

“ In its own line this little love story can hardly be excelled. It Is a pastoral, an 
idyl — the story of love and courtship and marriage of a fine young man and a lovely 
girl — no more ; but it is told in so thoroughly delightful a manner, with such playful 
humor, such delicate fancy, such true and sympathetic feeling, that nothing more could 
he desired.” — Boston Traveler. 





D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS, 


“ A VERY REMARKABLE BOOK.” 

^ HE BETH BOOK, By Sarah Grand, author of 
“ The Heavenly Twins,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

“ Readers will linger delightedly over one of the freshest and deepest studies of 
child character ever given to the world, and hereafter will find it an ever-present factor 
in their literary recollections and impressions.” — Lo7idon Globe. 

“ Here there are humor, observation, and sympathetic insight into the tempera- 
ments both of men and women.” — Loftdon Daily Chronicle. 

“Beth and her environments live before us. We see her sensitive as a musical 
instrument to the touch of surrounding influences, every latent quality for good and 
evil in her already warring for mastery.” — Londoti Daily Dews. 

“ There is much vivacity, much sympathy for the moods of girlhood, and with the 
strange, quaint, happy fancies of a child ; and much power of representing these 
things with humor, eloquence, and feeling.” — IVest/ninsier Gazette. 

“ Sarah Grand’s new work of fiction, * The Beth Book,’ will be likely to meet a 
wider acceptance than her famous book, ‘ The Heavenly Twins,’ for the reason that it 
is a more attractive piece of literary workmanship, and has about it a certain human 
interest that the other book lacked. . . . Madame Grand’s wit and humor, her 
mastery of a direct and forceful style, her quick insight, and the depth of her penetra- 
tion into human chau-acter, were never more apparent than in ‘The Beth Book.’” — 
Brooklyn Eagle. 

“ ‘ The Beth Book ’ is important because it is one of the few intelligent and 
thoughtful studies of life that have appeared this season. . . . The essence of the 
whole book is the effort to study and to trace the evolution of character ; and because 
the author has done this to admiration, her book is a success. Moreover, it is writ- 
ten with a masterly command of style, and is so utterly absorbing and so strongly 
and connectedly logical, that the author’s thought impresses you at every line. You 
skip nothing. Even a reader whom the deeper qualities of the book failed to hold 
would follow every incident from sheer pleasure in its vividness, its picturesqueness, 
and its entertainment.” — Boston Herald. 

“‘The Beth Book ’ is distinctly a notable achievement in fiction. . . . Written 
in a style that is picturesque, vigorous, and varied, with abundance of humor, ex- 
cellence of graphic description, and the ability to project her chief characters with a 
boldness of relief that is rare.” — Philadelphia Press. 

“ One of the strongest and most remarkable books of the year. ... ‘ The Beth 

Book ’ stands by itself. There is nothing with which to compare it.” — Buffalo 
Express. 

“ ‘ The Beth Book’ is a powerful book. It is written with wonderful insight and 
equally wonderful vividness of portrayal. It is absorbingly interesting. . . . The 
heroine awakens our wonder, pity, and admiration. We soon become enthralled by 
the fascinating study, and follow her physical and spiritual footsteps with breathless 
eagerness from page to page, from stage to stage of her development and the fore- 
shadowings of her destiny.” — Boston Adz’ertiser. 

“ In ‘ The Beth Book ’ the novelist has given us a story at once a marvelously weU- 
evolved study in psychology and at the same time an absorbing review of human life 
in its outward aspects. ‘ The Beth Book ’ is a wonder in its departure from conven- 
tional methods of fiction, and in an ever-growing charm in its development and 
sequence.” — Sa?t Fraticisco Call. 

“ Decidedly a notable addition to the few works which are of such quality to be 
classed as ‘books of the year.’ There are many reasons for this. First, it is an intel- 
ligent and faithful study of human life and character ; second, because it has a depth 
of purpose rare indeed in ordinary fiction ; and last, because from start to finish there 
is a charm which never ceases to hold the reader’s interest. Decidedly, ‘ The Beth 
Book ’ is a great book.” — Philadelphia Item. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


T 


GILBERT PARKER’S BEST BOOKS. 

Uniform Edition. 

"HE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY. Being the 

Memoirs of Captain Robert Moray, sometime an Officer in 
the Virginia Regiment, and afterwards of Amherst’s Regiment. 
Illustrated. $1.50. 

“ Another historical romance of the vividness and intensity of ‘ The Seats of the 
Mighty ’ has never come from the pen of an American. Mr. Parker’s latest work may 
without hesitation be set down as the best he has done. From the first chapter to the 
last w’ord interest in the book never wanes; one finds it difficult to interrupt the narra- 
tive with breathing space. It whirls with excitement and strange adventure. . . . All 
of the scenes do homage to the genius of Mr. Parker, and make ‘ The Seats of the 
Mighty ’ one of the books of the year.” — Chicago Record. 

“ Mr. Gilbert Parker is to be congratulated on the excellence of his latest story, 
‘ The Seats of the Mighty,’ and his readers are to be congratulated on the direction 
which his talents have taken therein. ... It is so good that we do not stop to think of 
its literature, and the personality of Doltaire is a masterpiece of creative art. ” — //etv 
York Mail and Express. 


^HE TRAIL OF THE SWORD. A Novel. 

^ $1.25. 

“ Mr. Parker here adds to a reputation already wide, and anew demonstrates his 
power of pictorial portrayal and of strong dramatic situation and climax.” — Philadel- 
phia Bulletin. 

“ The tale holds the reader’s interest from first to last, for it is full of fire and spirit, 
abounding in incident, and marked by good character drawing.” — Pittsburg Times. 


T 


'HE TRESPASSER. $1.25. 


“ Interest, pith, force, and charm — Mr. Parker’s new story possesses all these 
qualities. . . . Almost bare of synthetical decoration, his paragraphs are stirring be- 
cause they are real. We read at times— as we have read the great masters of romance 
— breathlessly.” — The Critic. 

“ Gilbert Parker writes a strong novel, but thus far this is his masterpiece. ... It 
is one of the great novels of the year.” — Boston Advertiser. 


T 


'HE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE. $1.25. 


“ A book which no one will be satisfied to put down until the end has been 
matter of certainty and assurance.” — The Nation, 

“A story of remarkable interest, originality, and ingenuity of construction.” — 
Boston Ho7ne your7ial. 


FALCHION. $1.25. 


“ A well-knit story, told In an exceedingly interesting way, and holding the 
reader’s attention to the end.” 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


BY ANTHONY HOPE. 



HE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO. 

With Photogravure Frontispiece by S. W. Van Schaick. i2mo. 
Cloth, $1.50. 


“ No adventures were ever better worth recounting than are those of Antonio of 
Monte Velluto, a very Bayard among outlaws. . . . To all those whose pulses still stir 
at the recital of deeds of high courage, we may recommend this book. . . . The chron- 
icle conveys the emotion of heroic adventure, and is picturesquely written.” — Lon- 
don Daily News. 

“ It has literary merits all its own, of a deliberate and rather deep order. . . . 
In point of execution ‘The Chronicles of Count Antonio’ is the best work that Mr. 
Hope has yet done. The design is clearer, the workmanship more elaborate, the style 
more colored.” — IVestminster Gazette, 

“A romance worthy of all the expectations raised by the brilliancy of his former 
books, and likely to be read with a keen enjoyment and a healthy exaltation of the 
spirits by every one who takes it up.” — The Scotsman. 

“ A gallant tale, written with unfailing freshness and spirit” — London Daily 
Telegraph. 

“ One of the most fascinating lomances written in English within many days. The 
quaint simplicity of its style is delightful, and the adventures recorded in these ‘ Chron- 
icles of Count Antonio ’ are as stirring and ingenious as any conceived even by Wey- 
man at his best.” — New York World. 

“ No adventures were ever better worth telling than those of Count Antonio. 

. . . The author knows full well how to make every pulse thrill, and how to hold his 
readers under the spell of his magic.” — Boston Herald, 


Y^HE GOD IN THE CAR. New edition. Uniform 
with “ The Chronicles of Count Antonio.” i2mo. Cloth, 
$1.25. 

“ ‘ The God in the Car’ is just as clever, just as distinguished in style, just as full 
of wit, and of what nowadays some persons like better than wit — allusiveness— as 
any of his stories. It is saturated with the modern atmosphere ; is not only a very 
clever but a very strong story ; in some respects, we think, the strongest Mr. Hope 
has yet written .” — London Speaker. 

“ A very remarkable book, deserving of critical analysis impossible within our 
limit ; brilliant, but not superficial ; well considered, but not elaborated ; constructed 
with the proverbial art that conceals, but yet allows itself to be enjoyed by readers to 
whom fine literary method is a keen pleasure .” — Lotidon World. 

“The book is a brilliant one. . . . ‘The God in the Car’ is one of the most re- 
markable works in a year that has given us the handiwork of nearly all our best living 
novelists .” — London Standard. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


'J^HE REDS OE THE MIDI, An Episode of the 

^ French Revolution. By Felix Gras. Translated from thc> 


Provencal by Mrs. Catharine A. Janvier. With an Intro* 
duction by Thomas A. Janvier. With Frontispiece. i2mo. 
Cloth, $1.50. 


“ It is doubtful whether in the English language we have had a more powerful, 
impressive, artistic picture of the French Revolution, from the revolutionist’s point of 
view, than that presented in F 61 ix Gras’s ‘The Reds of the Midi.’ . . . Adventures 
follow one another rapidly ; splendid, brilliant pictures are frequent, and the thread of 
a tender, beautiful love story winds in and out of its pages.” — New York Mail and 
Express. 

“ * The Reds of the Midi ’ is a red rose from Provence, a breath of pure air in 
the stifling atmosphere of present-day romance — a stirring narrative of one of the most 
picturesque events of the Revolution It is told with all the strength of simplicity 
ind directness; it is warm and pulsating, and fairly trembles with excitement.” — 
Chicago Record. 

“ To the names of Dickens; Hugo, and Erckmann-Chatrian must be added that of 
F^Ix Gras, as a romancer who has written a tale of the French Revolution not only 
possessing historical interest, but charming as a story. A delightful piece of literature, 
of a rare and exquisite flavor.” — Buffalo Express. 

'‘No more forcible presentation of the wrongs which the poorer classes suffered in 
France at the end of the eighteenth century has ever been put between the covers of 
a book.” — Boston Budgei. 

Every page is alive with incidents or scenes of the time, and any one who reads 
it will get a vivid picture that can never be forgotten of the Reign of Terror in Paris.” 
— San Francisco Chronicle. 


“ The author has a rare power of presenting vivid and lifelike pictures. He is a 
true artist. . . . His warm, glowing, Provencal imagination sees that tremendous 
battalion of death even as the no less warm and glowing imagination of Carlyle saw it.” 
— London Daily Chronicle. 

“Of ‘The Reds of theMidi’ itself it is safe to predict that the story will become one 
of the most widely popular stories of the next few months. It certainly deserves such 
appreciative recognition, for it throbs with vital interest in every line. . . . The charac- 
ters are living, stirring, palpitating human beings, who will glow in the reader’s memory 
long after he has turned over the last pages of this remarkably fascinating book.” — 
London Daily Mail. 

“A delightful romance. . . . The story Is not only historically accurate; it Is one 
A continuous and vivid interest” — Philadelphia Press. 

“ Simply enthralling. . . . The narrative abounds in vivid descriptions of stirring 
incidents and wonderfully attractive depictions of character. Indeed, one might almost 
say of ‘The Reds of the Midi’ that it has all the fire and forcefulness of the elder 
Dumas, with something more than Dumas's faculty for dramatic compression.” — 
Boston Beacon. 

“ A charmingly told story, and all the more delightful because of the unstudied 
simplicity of the spokesman, Pascalet. F 61 Ix Gras is a true artist, and he has pleaded 
the cause of a hated people with the tact and skill that only an artist could employ.” — 
Chicago Evening Post. 

“ Much excellent revolutionary fiction In many languages has been written since 
the announcement of the expiration of 1889, or rather since the contemporary publica- 
tion pf old war records newly discovered, but there is none more vivid than this story 
01 men of the south, written by one of their own blood.” — Boston Herald. 


New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


**The Story of the Yean'^ 
HALL CAINE’S NEW NOVEL. 



HE CHRISTIAN, By Hall Caine, author 

“ The Manxman,” “ The Deemster,” “ The Bondman,” 
i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 


of 

etc. 


“ One of the grandest books of the century-end.” — New York Home 
yournal. 

“The public is hardly prepared for so remarkable a performance as 
‘The Christian.’ ... A permanent addition to English literature. . . . 
Above and beyond any popularity that is merely temporary.” — Boston 
Herald. 

“ Must be regarded as the greatest work that has yet come from the pen 
of this strong writer. . . . A book of wonderful power and force.” — Brook- 
lyn Eagle. 

“ The best story Hall Caine has written. It is one of the best stories 
that have been written for many years. It is emphatically the strongest and 
best story that has been written during the past twelve months. ... A 
masterpiece in fiction.” — Buffalo Commercial. 

“ This extraordinary piece of fiction. None who read it will gainsay its 
power and effectiveness. . . . The remarkable book of the summer.” — New 
York Times. 

“ Of powerful and absorbing interest. The reader is irresistibly fasci- 
nated from the very beginning. ... A remarkable book.” — Philadelphia 
Press. 

“ A noble story ; one of the best half-dozen novels of the decade ; a 
splendid piece of writing ; a profound study in character, and a series of 
thrilling portrayals. ” — Chicago Evening Post. 

“ A book that has assuredly placed its maker upon a pedestal which will 
last well-nigh forever. . . . Powerful, thrilling, dramatic, and, best of all, 
intensely honest in its every line. ... A truly wonderful achievement.” — 
Cincinnati Commercial- 7 ribune. 

“ By long odds the most powerful production of his very productive pen, 
and it will live and be read and re-read when ninety per cent of the books 
of to-day are forgotten.” — Boston Daily Globe. 

“Though the theme is old, Mr. Caine has worked it up with a passion 
and power that make it new again. . . . Can not fail to thrill even the most 
careless reader.” — New York Herald. 

“ ‘ The Christian ’ is one of the strongest novels of the year, and is in 
some respects the greatest work this author has yet produced.” — Philadel- 
phia Evening Telegraph. 

“ Indisputably Mr. Caine’s strongest and most important work.” — Phila- 
delphia Bulletin. 

“ A powerful story. . . . The portrait of the pure womanliness of Glory 
Quayle is beyond any praise we can bestow.” — N. Y. Mail and Express. 

“ By far the strongest novel that has been brought out this year. ... If 
you once dip into it you must stay with it until the end. It lays hold upon 
your heart and compels attention.” — San Francisco Chronicle. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SUCCESSOR TO “LOOKING BACKWARD.” 



QUALITY. By 

$1.25. 


Edward Bellamy. 


i2mo. Cloth, 


“The book is so full of ideas, so replete with suggestive aspects, so rich 
in quotable parts, as to form an arsenal of argument for apostles of the new 
democracy. . . . The humane and thoughtful reader will lay down ‘ Equality ’ 
and regard the world about him with a feeling akin to that with which the 
child of the tenement returns from his ‘ country week ’ to the foul smells, the 
discordant noises, the incessant strife of the wonted environment. Immense 
changes are undoubtedly in store for the coming century. The industrial 
transformations of the world for the past hundred years seem to assure for 
the next hundred a mutation in social conditions commensurately radical. 
The tendency is undoubtedly toward human unity, social solidarity. Science 
will more and more make social evolution a voluntary, self-directing process 
on the part of man,” — Sylvester Baxter, in the Review of Reviews. 

“ ‘ Equality’ is a greater book than ‘ Looking Backward,’ while it is more 
powerful ; and the smoothness, the never-failing interest, the limpid clear- 
ness and the simplicity of the argument, and the timeliness, will make it 
extremely popular. Here is a book that every one will read and enjoy. 
Rant there is none, but the present system is subjected to a searching arraign- 
ment. Withal, the story is bright, optimistic, and cheerful.” — Boston Herald. 

“ Mr. Bellamy has bided his time — the full nine years of Horace’s counsel. 
Calmly and quietly he has rounded out the vision which occurred to him. . . . 
That Mr. Bellamy is earnest and honest in his convictions is evident. That 
hundreds of earnest and honest men hold the same convictions is also evident. 
Will the future increase, or decrease, the number ? ” — New York Herald. 

“ So ample was Mr. Bellamy’s material, so rich is his imaginative power, 
that ‘ Looking Backward ’ scarcely gave him room to turn in. . . . The 
betterment of man is a noble topic, and the purpose of Mr. Bellamy’s ‘ Equal- 
ity ’ is to approach it with reverence. The book will raise many discussions. 
The subject which Mr. Bellamy writes about is inexhaustible, and it has never- 
failing human interest.” — New York Times. 

“ ‘ Equality’ deserves praise for its completeness. It shows the thought 
and work of years. It apparently treats of every phase of its subject. . . . 
Altogether praiseworthy and very remarkable.” — Chicago Tribune, 

“ There is no question at all about the power of the author both as the 
teller of a marvelous story and as the imaginative creator of a scheme of 
earthly human happiness. ‘ Equality ’ is profoundly interesting in a great 
many different ways,” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

“ A vastly interesting work, and those who feel in the air the coming of 
great social, industrial, and economical changes, whether they hope for or 
fear them, will find ‘ Equality ’ the most absorbing reading. The ready sale 
of the first installment of the book shows how real and general the concern 
in these questions has grown to be.” — Springfield Republican, 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


Miss F. F. MONTRESOR’S BOOKS. 

UNIFORM EDITION. EACH, i6M0, CLOTH. 

T THE CROSS-ROADS. $1.50. 

“ Miss Montr6sor has the skill in writing of Olive Schreiner and Miss Harra- 
den, added to the fullness of knowledge of life which is a chief factor in the success of 
George Eliot and Mrs. Humphry Ward. . . . There is as much strength in this book 
as in a dozen ordinary successful novels.” — London Literary World. 

“ I commend it to all my readers who like a strong, cheerful, beautiful story. It 
is one of the truly notable books of the season.” — Cincinnati Commercial Tribune. 



CALSE coin or true? $1.25. 

“One of the few true novels of the day. ... It is powerful, and touched with a 
delicate insight and strong inipressions of life and character. . . . The author’s theme 
is original, her treatment artistic, and the book is remarkable for its unflagging inter- 
est.” — Philadelphia Record. 


“ The tale never flags in interest, and once taken up will not be laid down until the 
last page is finished.” — Boston Budget. 

“A well-written novel, with well- depicted characters and well-chosen scenes.” — 
Chicago News. 

“ A sweet, tender, pure, and lovely story.” — Buffalo Commercial. 


'T'HE ONE WHO LOOKED ON. $1.25. 

^ “A tale quite unusual, entirely unlike any other, full of a strange power and 
realism, and touched with a fine humor.” — London World. 

“ One of the most remarkable and powerful of the year’s contributions, worthy to 
stand with Ian Maclaren’s.” — British Weekly. 

“One of the rare books which can be read with great pleasure and recommended 
without reservation. It is fresh, pure, sweet, and pathetic, with a pathos which is per- 
fectly wholesome.” — St. Paul Globe. 

“ The story is an intensely human one, and it is delightfully told. . . . The author 
shows a marvelous keenness in character analysis, and a marked ingenuity in the de- 
velopment of her story.” — Boston Advertiser. 


TNTO THE HIGHWA K 5 AND HEDGES. $1.50. 

“A touch of idealism, of nobility of thought and purpose, mingled with an air of 
reality and well-chosen expression, are the most notable features of a book that has not 
the ordinary defects of such qualities. With all its elevation of utterance and spirit- 
uality of outlook and insight it is wonderfully free from overstrained or exaggerated 
matter, and it has glimpses of humor. Most of the characters are vivid, yet there are 
restraint and sobriety in their treatment, and almost all are carefully and consistently 
evolved.” — Londo7i Athenceum. 

“ ‘ Into the Highways and Hedges ' is a book not of promise only, but of high 
achievement. It is original, powerful, artistic, humorous. It places the author at a 
bound in the rank of those artists to whom we look for the skillful presentation of strong 
personal impressions of life and character.” — London Daily News. 

“ The pure idealism of ‘ Into the Highways and Hedges ’ does much to redeem 
modern fiction from the reproach it has brought upon itself.'. . . The story is original, 
and told with great lefineinenL”— Philadelphia Public Ledger. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATfONS 


HAMLIN GARLAND’S BOOKS. 

Uniform edition. Each, lamo, cloth, $1.25. 


m 


^AYSIDE COURTSHIPS. 


“ A faithful and an entertaining portrayal of village and rural life in the West 
... No one can read this collection of short stories without feeling that he is master 
of the Chicago Journal. 

“ One of the most delightful books of short stories which have come to our notice in 
a long time.” — Boston Times. 


“ The historian of the plains has done nothing better than this group of Western 
stories. Wayside courtships they are, but full of tender feeling and breathing a fine, 
strong sentimenL” — Louisville Times. 


J 


A SON ED WARDS. An Average Man. 


The average man in the industrial ranks is presented in this story in as lifelike 
a manner as Mr. Bret Harte presented the men in the California mining camps thirty 
years ago. ... A story which will be read with absorbing interest by hundreds of 
workingmen.” — Boston Herald. 



MEMBER OF THE THIRD HOUSE. 

Story of Political Warfare. 


A 


“ The work is, in brief, a keen and searching study of lobbies and lobbyists. At 
least, it is the lobbies that furnish its motive. For the rest, the story is narrated with 
much power, and the characters of Brennan the smart wire-puller, the millionaire Davis, 
the reformer Tuttle, and Evelyn Ward are skillfully individualized. . . . Mr. Garland’s 
people have this peculiar characteristic, that they have not had a literary world made 
for them to live in. They seem to move and act in the cold gray light of reality, and 
in that trying light they ire evidently human.” — Chicago Record. 



SPOIL OF OFFICE. 

West. 


A Story of the Modern 


“ It awakens in the mind a tremendous admiration for an artist who could so find 
his way through the mists of familiarity to an artistic haven. ... In reading ‘ A Spoil 
of Office ’ one feels a continuation of interest extending from the fictional into the actual, 
with no break or divergence. And it seems to be only a question of waiting a day or 
two ere one will run up against the characters in real life.” 


ALSO, 


/t LITTLE NORSK ; or., OV Pap's Flaxen. i6mo. 

Boards, 50 cents. 


“True feeling, the modesty of Nature, rnd the sure touch of art are the marks of 
this pure and graphic story, which has added a bright leaf to the author’s laurels.” — 
Chicago Tribune. 

“ A delightful story, full of humor of the finest kind, genuine pathos, and enthralling 
in its vivid human interest.” — London Academy. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


By a. CONAN DOYLE, 

Uniform edition. i2mo. Cloth, $i.^o 6 er volume. 

NCLE BERN AC. A Romance of the Empire. 

Illustrated. 

“ ‘Uncle Bernac’ is lor a truth Dr. Doyle’s Napoleon. Viewed as a picture of the 
little man in the gray coat, it must rank before anything he has written. The fascina- 
tion of it is extraordinary.” — London Daily Chronicle. 

“ From the opening pages the clear and energetic telling of the story never falters 

and our attention never flags.” — Lottdon Observer. 

% 

ODNEY STONE. Illustrated. 

“ A remarkable book, worthy of the pen that gave us ‘ The White Company/ 
‘Micah Clarke,’ and other notable romances.” — London Daily News. 

“ A notable and very brilliant work of genius.” — London Speaker. 

“ ‘ Rodney Stone ’ is, in our Judgment, distinctly the best of Dr. Conan Doyle’s 
novels. . . . There are few descriptions in fiction that can vie with that race upon the 
Brighton road.” — London Times. 

HE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD- 

A Romance of the Life of a Typical Napoleonic Soldier. Illus- 
trated. 

“ The brigadier is brave, resolute, amorous, loyal, chivalrous ; never was a foe mor^ 
ardent in battle, more clement in victory, or more ready at need. . . . Gallantry, humoi, 
martial gayety, moving incident, make up a really delightful book.” — London Times. 

“ May be set down without reservation as the most thoroughly enjoyable book that 
Dr. Doyle has ever published.” — Boston Beacon. 

HE STARK MUNRO LETTERS. Being a 

Series of Twelve Letters written by Stark Munro, M. B., 
to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, 
of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884. Illus- 
trated. 

“ Cullingworth, ... a much more interesting creation than Sherlock Holmes, and 
I pray Dr. Doyle to give us more of him.” — Richard le Gallienne, in the London Star. 

‘“The Stark Munro Letters’ is a bit of real literature. . . . Its reading will be an 
epoch-making event in many a life.” — Philadelphia Evening Telegraph. 

OUND THE RED LAMP. Being Facts and 

Fancies of Medical Life. 

“Too much can not be said in praise of these strong productions, that to read, 
keep one’s heart leaping to the throat, and the mind in a tumult of anticipation to the 
end. . . . N o series of short stories in modern literature can approach them.” — Hart- 
ford Times. 

“If Dr. A. 'Conan Doyle had not already placed himself in the front rank of living 
English writers by ‘ The Refugees,’ and other of his larger stories, he would surely do 
so by these fifteen short tales.” — New York Mail and Express. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. NEW YORK. 







D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS. 


SOME CHOICE FICTION. 

EACH, i6MO, cloth, SPECIAL BINDING, $1.25. 


T 


HE MYSTERY OF CHOICE. By R. W. Cham- 

bers, author of “ The Moon-Maker,” “ The Red Republic,” etc. 


“ Probably Mr. Robert W. Chambers is to-day the most promising American writer 
of fiction of his age. . . . ‘ The Mystery of Choice ' reveals his most delightful quali- 
ties at their best. . . . Imagination he has first of all, and it is of a fine quality ; con- 
stant action he achieves without apparent effort ; naturalness, vividness, the power of 
description, and especially local color, come to him like delight in one of those glorious 
mornings when distance seems annihilated.” — Boston Herald. 


M 


ARCH HARES. By Harold Frederic, author 

of “ The Damnation of Theron Ware,” “ In the Valley,” etc. 


“ One of the most cheerful novels we have chanced upon for many a day. It has 
much of the rapidity and vigor of a smartly written farce, with a pervading freshness a 
smartly written farce rarely possesses. ... A book decidedly worth reading.” — Lon~ 
don Saturday Review. 

“ A striking and original story, . . . effective, pleasing, and very capable.” — Lon- 
don Literary World. 

“ Mr. Frederic has found fairyland where few of us would dream of looking for it. 
. . . ‘ March Hares’ has a joyous impetus which carries everything before it; and it 
enriches a class offiction which unfortunately is not copious.” — London Daily Chronicle. 



REEN GATES. An Analysts of Foolishness. By 
Mrs. K. M. C. Meredith (Johanna Staats), author of “ Drum- 
sticks,” etc. 


“ Crisp and delightful. . . . Fascinating, not so much for what it suggests as for 
its. manner, and the cleverly outlined people who walk through its pages.” — Chicago 
Times- Herald. 


“ An original strain, bright and vivacious, and strong enough in its foolishness and 
its unexpected tragedy to prove its sterling worth.” — Boston Herald. 


T 


'HE STATEMENT OF STELLA MATE ELY. 

By F. Anstey, author of “ Vice Versa,” ” The Giant’s Robe,” 
etc. 


“ Most admirably done. . . . We read fascinated, and fully believing every word 
we read. . . . The book has deeply interested us, and even thrilled us more than 
once.” — London Daily Chronicle. 

“ A wildly fantastic story, thrilling and impressive. . . . Has an air of vivid reality, 
. . . of bold conception and vigorous treatment. . . . A very noteworthy novelette.”-^ 
London Times. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. NEW YORK. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS, 


NOVELS BY MAARTEN MAARTENS. 

'Y^HE GREATER GLORY. A Story of High Lift. 
By Maarten Maartens, author of “God’s Fool,’’ “Joost 
Avelingh,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

“Until the Appletons discovered the merits of Maarten Maartens, the foremost of 
Dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many American readers knew that there were Dutch 
novelists. His ‘ God’s Fool’ and ‘Joost Avelingh’ made for him an American reputa- 
tion. To our mind this just published work of his is his best. . . . He is a master ol 
epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight.” — Boston Advertiser. 

“ It would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in 
which the Dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most 
impressive stories of the period. ... It belongs to the small class of novels which 
one can not afford to neglect.” — San Francisco Chronicle, 

“ Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the 
day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power.” — Boston Beacon. 



OHS TOOL. 

Cloth, $1.50. 


By Maarten Maartens. 


i2mo. 


“ Throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less 
interesting story of human lives or one less deftly X.o\d‘'— ‘London Saturday Review. 

“ Perfectly easy, graceful, humorous. . . . The author’s skill in character-drawing 
is undeniable.” — London Chronicle. 

" A remarkable work.” — New York Times. 

“ Maarten Maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature. 
. . . Pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of ‘ God’s F'ool.’ ” — Philadel- 
phia Ledger. 

" Its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading English novelists of 
to-day.” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

“The story is wonderfully brilliant . . . The interest never lags; the style is 
realistic and intense ; and there is a constantly underl5jing current of subtle humor. 
. . . It is, in short, a book which no student of modem literature should fail to read." 
— Boston Times. 

“ A story of remarkable interest and point.” — New York Observer. 


7 


00 ST AVELINGH. 

i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 


By Maarten Maartens. 


“So unmistakably good as to induce the hope that an acquaintance with the Dutch 
literature of fiction may soon become more general among us.” — London Morning 
Post. 


“ In scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more 
nature or more human nature.” — London Standard. 

“ A novel of a very high type. At once strongly realistic and powerfully ideal- 
stlc.” — London Literary World. 

“ Full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion." — London 
r de graph. 

“ Maarten Maartens is a capital story-teller." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

"Our English writers of fiction will have to look to \h&\r I&utgXs.*’— Birmingham 
Daily Post. 


New York ; D. APPLETON & CO,. 72 Fifth Avenue. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


T 


HE THREE MUSKETEERS, By Alexandre 

Dumas. With a Letter from Alexandre Dumas, yJTr, and 250 
Illustrations by Maurice Leloir. New popular edition in two 
volumes. 8vo. Cloth, $4.00. 


“ This is undoubtedly the most superb edition of Dumas’s masterpiece that has ever 
been printed. A book to delight the senses as well as the mind. Both without and 
within it is all that a book can possibly be.” — Chicago Times-Herald. 

“ He who has read ‘ The Three Musketeers ’ as a boy will be almost as grateful to 
Maurice Leloir for renewing his pleasure, as to Dumas for conferring it in the first in- 
stance. ... It may be said that, until he was illustrated by Leloir, no one not a French 
antiquarian could have understood him thoroughly.” — The Critic. 

“ We can not have too many editions of Dumas, and this particular one of his ro- 
mances is so brilliant, so interesting, so lovable, that in this new dress it take.s at once 
a more favored place than ever in the affections of his followers.” — New York Tribune. 

“ The present of such a book to almost any one is to insure grateful remembrance 
for many years.” — New York World. 

“ Leloir has caught the spirit of the times and has made the jrersonages seem real.” 
— New York Times. 

“ There is no edition equal to this in the quality of the illustrations or in the care 
which has been bestowed upon the translation.” — Philadelphia Press. 

“The edition now given to the public is most elegant in all its appointments. The 
illustrations by Maurice Leloir are magnificent, and are spirited enough to be in accord 
with their subject.” — Chicago Evening Post. 

“ In this new and really magnificent dress the wonderfully dramatic and picturesque 
effects of the tale are admirably emphasized, for Maurice Leloir is an artist who por- 
trays something more than surfaces. ... It would be difficult to praise too highly the . 
varied vigor and charm which he has provided to accompany the chronicle of ‘ The 
Three Musketeers.’ ” — Boston Beacon. 

“ This standard romance has never been issued in more attractive and serviceable 
form. The young who have never become acquainted with the three knights, and the 
old who desire to renew their impressions, will alike find this edition a most agreeable 
medium.” — St. Paul Pioneer Press. 

“There can be no edition equal to this in the quality of the text, or in the care 
which has been bestowed upon the translation, and it is safe to say that the final and 
standard English edition of ‘ The Three Musketeers ’ is now presented to the public.” 
— Elmira Telegram. 

“ Maurice Leloir has studied the characters of Dumas’s work until he has caught 
their spirit, and it is a real d’Artagnan who walks through the pages. His Athos, 
Porthos, and Aramis are alive; his duel scenes are pictures of real men, and not lay 
figures.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 


New York ; D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 















